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THE DAYS OF BRUCE 














THE DAYS OF BRUCE 

A Story from Scottish History 


By 

GRACE AGUILAR 

1* 

Author of Home Influence , The Mother's Recompense , 
Woman's Friendship , The Vale of Cedars , 

The Women of Israel , Etc. 



New Edition 
Complete in One Volume 


NEW YORK 

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 

1904 















BY TRANSFER 

JO » t '*•» 


t 























PKEFACE. 


% 


As these pages have passed through the press, min- 
gled feelings of pain and pleasure have actuated my 
heart. Who shall speak the regret that she, to whom 
its composition was a work of love, cannot participate 
in the joy which its publication would have occasioned — 
who shall tell of that anxious pleasure which I feel 
in witnessing the success of each and all the efforts of 
her pen? 

The Days of Bruce must be considered as an en- 
deavor to place before the reader an interesting nar- 
rative of a period of history, in itself a romance, and 
one perhaps as delightful as could well have been se- 
lected. In combination with the story of Scotland’s brave 
deliverer, it must be viewed as an illustration of female 
character, and descriptive of much that its Author consid- 
ered excellent in woman. In the high-minded Isabella 
of Buchan is traced the resignation of a heart wounded 
in its best affections, yet trustful midst accumulated 
misery. In Isoline may be seen the self-inflicted unhap- 
piness of a too confident and self-reliant nature; while in 

Agnes is delineated the overwhelming of a mind too 

v 


VI 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


much akin to heaven in purity and innocence to battle 
with the stern and bitter sorrows with which her life is 
strewn. 

How far the merits of this work may be perceived 
becomes not me to judge; I only know and feel that 
on me has devolved the endearing task of publishing the 
writings of my lamented child — that I am fulfilling the 
desire of her life. 

Sarah Agxjilar. 


May, 1852 . 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


CHAPTER I. 

The month of March, rough and stormy as it is in Eng- 
land, would perhaps be deemed mild and beautiful as May 
by those accustomed to meet and brave its fury in the 
eastern Highlands, nor would the evening on which our 
tale commences belie its wild and fitful character. 

The wind howled round the ancient Tower of Buchan, 
in alternate gusts of wailing and of fury, so mingled with 
the deep, heavy roll of the lashing waves, that it was im- 
possible to distinguish the roar of the one element from 
the howl of the other. Neither tree, hill, nor wood inter- 
cepted the rushing, gale, to change the dull monotony of 
its gloomy tone. The Ythan, indeed, darted by, swollen 
and turbid from continued storms, threatening to overflow 
the barren plain it watered, but its voice was undistin- 
guishable amidst the louder wail of wind and ocean. Pine- 
trees, dark, ragged, and stunted, and scattered so widely 
apart that each one seemed monarch of some thirty acres, 
were the only traces of vegetation for miles round. Nor 
were human habitations more abundant ; indeed, few dwell- 
ings, save those of such solid masonry as the Tower of 
Buchan, could hope to stand scathless amid the storms 
that in winter ever swept along the moor. 

No architectural beauty distinguished the residence of 
the Earls of Buchan; none of that tasteful decoration 
peculiar to the Saxon, nor of the more sombre yet more im- 
posing style introduced by the Norman, and known as the 
Gothic architecture. 

Originally a hunting-lodge, it had been continually en- 
larged by succeeding lords, without any regard either to 
symmetry or proportion, elegance or convenience; and 
now, early in the year 1306, appeared within its outer walls 
as a most heterogeneous mass of ill-shaped turrets, courts, 

1 


2 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


offices, and galleries, huddled together in ill-sorted confu- 
sion, though presenting to the distant view a massive 
square building, remarkable only for a strength and solid- 
ity capable of resisting alike the war of elements and of 
man. 

Without all seemed a dreary wilderness, but within 
existed indisputable signs of active life. The warlike in- 
habitants of the tower, though comparatively few in num- 
ber, were continually passing to and fro in the courts and 
galleries, or congregating in little knots, in eager converse. 
Some cleansing their armor or arranging banners; others, 
young and active, practising the various manoeuvres of 
mimic war; each and .all bearing on their brow that in- 
describable expression of anticipation and excitement 
which seems ever on the expectant of it knows not what. 
The condition of Scotland was indeed such as to keep her 
sons constantly on the alert, preparing for defence or at- 
tack, as the insurging efforts of the English or the com- 
mands of their lords should determine. Erom the richest 
noble to the veriest serf, the aged man to the little child, 
however contrary their politics and feelings, one spirit 
actuated all, and that spirit was war — war in all its deadli- 
est evils, its unmitigated horrors, for it was native blood 
which deluged the rich plains, the smiling vales, and fertile 
hills of Scotland. 

Although the castle of Buchan resembled more a citadel 
intended for the accommodation of armed vassals than the 
commodious dwelling of feudal lords, one turret gave evi- 
dence, by its internal arrangement, of a degree of refine- 
ment and a nearer approach to comfort than its fellows, 
and seeming to proclaim that within its massive walls the 
lords of the castle were accustomed to reside. The apart- 
ments were either hung with heavy tapestry which dis- 
played, in gigantic proportions, the combats of the Scots 
and Danes, or panelled with polished oak, rivalling ebony 
in its glossy blackness, inlaid with solid silver. Heavy 
draperies of damask fell from the ceiling to the floor at 
every window, a pleasant guard, indeed, from the constant 
winds which found entrance through many creaks and 
corners of the Gothic casements, but imparting a dingy 
aspect to apartments lordly in their dimensions, and some- 
what rich in decoration. 

The deep embrasures of the casements were thus in a 
manner severed from the main apartment, for even when 
the curtains were completely lowered there was space enough 


THE DAYS OF BHUCE. 


3 


to contain a chair or two and a table. The furniture cor- 
responded in solidity and proportion to the panelling or 
tapestry of the walls; nor was there any approach even at 
those doubtful comforts already introduced in the more 
luxurious Norman castles of South Britain. 

The group, however, assembled in one of these ancient 
rooms needed not the aid of adventitious ornament to be- 
tray the nobility of birth, and those exalted and chivalric 
feelings inherent to their rank. The sun, whose stormy 
radiance during the day had alternately deluged earth and 
sky with fitful yet glorious brilliance, and then, burying 
itself in the dark masses of overhanging clouds, robed every 
object in deepest gloom, now seemed to concentrate his de- 
parting rays in one living flood of splendor, and darting 
within the chamber, lingered in crimson glory around the 
youthful form of a gentle girl, dyeing her long and clus- 
tering curls with gold. Slightly bending over a large and 
cumbrous frame which supported her embroidery, her 
attitude could no more conceal the grace and lightness of 
her childlike form, than the glossy ringlets the soft and 
radiant features which they shaded. There was archness 
lurking in those dark blue eyes, to which tears seemed yet 
a stranger; the clear and snowy forehead, the full red 
lip, and health-bespeaking cheek had surely seen but smiles, 
and mirrored but the joyous light which filled her gentle 
heart. Her figure seemed to speak a child, but there was a 
something in that face, bright, glowing as it was, which 
yet would tell of somewhat more than childhood — that sev- 
enteen summers had done their work, and taught that 
guileless heart a sterner tale than gladness. 

A young man, but three or four years her senior, occu- 
pied an embroidered settle at her feet. In complexion, as 
in the color of his hair and eyes, there was similarity be- 
tween them, but the likeness went no further, nor would 
the most casual observer have looked on them as kindred. 
Fair and lovely as the maiden would even have been pro- 
nounced, it was perhaps more the expression, the sweet 
innocence that characterized her features which gave to 
them their charm; but in the young man there was in- 
finitely more than this, though effeminate as was his com- 
plexion, and the bright sunny curls which floated over his 
throat, he was eminently and indescribably beautiful, for 
it was; the mind, the glorious mind, the kindling spirit 
which threw their radiance over his perfect features; the 
spirit and mind which that noble form enshrined stood 


4 


THE DAYS OF BEUCE. 


apart, and though he knew it not himself, found not their 
equal in that dark period of warfare and of woe. The 
sword and lance were the only instruments of the feudal 
aristocracy; ambition, power, warlike fame, the principal 
occupants of their thoughts; the chase, the tourney, or 
the foray, the relaxation of their spirits. Hut unless that 
face deceived, there was more, much more, which charac- 
terized the elder youth within that chamber. 

A large and antique volume of Norse legends rested on 
his knee, which, in a rich, manly voice, he was reading 
aloud to his companion, diversifying his lecture with re- 
marks and explanations, which, from the happy smiles and 
earnest attention of the maiden, appeared to impart the 
pleasure intended by the speaker. The other visible in- 
habitant of the apartment was a noble-looking boy of about 
fifteen, far less steadily employed than his companions, for 
at one time he was poising a heavy lance, and throwing 
himself into the various attitudes of a finished warrior; at 
others, brandished a two-handed sword, somewhat taller 
than himself; then glancing over the shoulder of his sister 
— for so nearly was he connected with the maiden, though 
the raven curls, the bright flashing eye of jet, and darker 
skin, appeared to forswear such near relationship — criticis- 
ing her embroidery, and then transferring his scrutiny to 
the strange figures on the gorgeously-illuminated manu- 
script, and then for a longer period listening, as it were, 
irresistibly to the wild legends which that deep voice was 
so melodiously pouring forth. 

“ It will never do, Agnes. You cannot embroider the 
coronation of Kenneth MacAlpine and listen to these wild 
tales at one and the same time. Look at your clever pupil, 
Sir Nigel; she is placing a heavy iron buckler on the poor 
king’s head instead of his golden crown.” The boy laughed 
long and merrily as he spoke, and even Sir Nigel smiled; 
while Agnes, blushing and confused, replied, half jestingly 
and half earnestly, “ And why not tell me of it before, 
Alan? you must have seen it long ago.” 

“ And so I did, sweet sister mine ; but I wished to see 
the effect of such marvellous abstraction, and whether, in 
case of necessity, an iron shield would serve our purpose 
as well as a jewelled diadem.” 

u Never fear, my boy. Let but the king stand forth, 
and there will be Scottish men enow and willing to con- 
vert an iron buckler into a goodly crown ; ” and as Sir 
Nigel spoke his eyes flashed, and his whole countenance 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


5 


irradiated with a spirit that might not have been suspected 
when in the act of reading, but which evidently only slept 
till awakened by an all-sufficient call. “ Let the tyrant Ed- 
ward exult in the possession of our country’s crown and 
sceptre — he may find we need not them to make a king; 
aye, and a king to snatch the regal diadem from the proud 
usurper’s brow — the Scottish sceptre from his blood-stained 
hands ! ” 

“ Thou talkest wildly, Nigel,” answered the lad, sorrow- 
fully, his features assuming an expression of judgment 
and feeling beyond his years. “ Who is there in Scotland 
will do this thing? who will dare again the tyrant’s rage? 
Is not this unhappy country divided within itself, and 
how may it resist the foreign foe ? ” 

“ Wallace! think of Wallace! Did he not well-nigh 
wrest our country from the tyrant’s hands? And is there 
not one to follow in the path he trod — no noble heart to 
do what he hath done ? ” 

“ Nigel, yes. Let but the rightful king stand forth, 
and were there none other, I — even I, stripling as I am, 
with my good sword and single arm, even with the dark 
blood of Comyn in my veins, Alan of Buchan, would join 
him, aye, and die for him ! ” 

“ There spoke the blood of Duff, and not of Comyn ! ” 
burst impetuously from the lips of Nigel, as he grasped 
the stripling’s ready hand ; “ and doubt not, noble boy, 
there are other hearts in Scotland bold and true as thine; 
and even as Wallace, one will yet arise to wake them from 
their stagnant sleep, and give them freedom.” 

“ Wallace,” said the maiden, fearfully; “ ye talk of Wal- 
lace, of his bold deeds and bolder heart, but bethink ye of 
his fate. Oh, were it not better to be still than follow in 
his steps unto the scaffold ? ” 

“ Dearest, no ; better the scaffold and the axe, aye, even 
the iron chains and hangman’s cord, than the gilded fetters 
of a tyrant’s yoke. Shame on thee, sweet Agnes, to coun- 
sel thoughts as these, and thou a Scottish maiden.” Yet 
even as he spoke chidingly, the voice of Nigel became soft 
and thrilling, even as it had before been bold and daring. 

“ I fear me, Nigel, I have but little of my mother’s 
blood within my veins, I cannot bid them throb and bound 
as hers with patriotic love and warrior fire. A lowly cot 
with him I loved were happiness for me.” 

“ But that cot must rest upon a soil unchained, sweet 
Agnes, or joy could have no resting there. Wherefore did 


6 


THE DAYS OF BKUCE. 


Scotland rise against her tyrant — why struggle as she hath 
to fling aside her chains? Was it her noble sons? Alas, 
alas! degenerate and base, they sought chivalric fame; 
forgetful of their country, they asked for knighthood from 
proud Edward’s hand, regardless that that hand had 
crowded fetters on their fatherland, and would enslave 
their sons. Not to them did Scotland owe the transient 
gleam of glorious light which, though extinguished in the 
patriot’s blood, hath left its trace behind. With the bold, 
the hardy, lowly Scot that gleam had birth; they would be 
free to them. What mattered that their tyrant was a 
valiant knight, a worthy son of chivalry: they saw but an 
usurper, an enslaver, and they rose and spurned his smiles 
— aye, and they will rise again. And wert thou one of 
them, sweet girl, a cotter’s wife, thou too wouldst pine for 
freedom. Yes; Scotland will bethink her of her warrior’s 
fate, and shout aloud revenge for Wallace! ” 

Either his argument was unanswerable, or the energy of 
his voice and manner carried conviction with them, but a 
brighter glow mantled the maiden’s cheek, and with it stole 
the momentary shame — the wish, the simple words that she 
had spoken could be recalled. 

“ Give us but a king for whom to fight — a king to love, 
revere, obey — a king from whose hand knighthood were 
an honor, precious as life itself, and there are noble hearts 
enough to swear fealty to him, and bright swords ready to 
defend his throne,” said the young heir of Buchan, as he 
brandished his own weapon above his head, and then rested 
his arms upon its broad hilt, despondingly. “ But where 
is that king? Men speak of my most gentle kinsman Sir 
John Comyn, called the Bed — bah! The sceptre were the 
same jewelled bauble in his impotent hand as in his sapient 
uncle’s; a gem, a toy, forsooth, the loan of crafty Edward. 
No! the Bed Comyn is no king for Scotland; and who is 
there besides ! The rightful heir — a cold, dull-blooded neu- 
tral — a wild and wavering changeling. I pray thee be not 
angered, Nigel; it cannot be gainsaid, e’en though he is 
thy brother.” 

“ I know it Alan ; know it but too well,” answered Nigel, 
sadly, though the dark glow rushed up to cheek and brow. 
“ Yet Bobert’s blood is hot enough. His deeds are plunged 
in mystery — his words not less so ; yet I cannot look on him 
as thou dost, as, alas! too many do. It may be that I 
love him all too well; that dearer even than Edward, than 
all the rest, has Bobert ever been to me. He knows it not; 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


1 


for, sixteen years my senior, he has ever held me as a child 
taking little heed of his wayward course ; and yet my heart 
has throbbed beneath his word, his look, as if he were not 
what he seemed, but would — but must be something more.” 

“ I ever thought thee but a wild enthusiast, gentle 
Nigel, and this confirms it. Mystery, aye, such mystery as 
ever springs from actions at variance with reason, judg- 
ment, valor — with all that frames the patriot. Would that 
thou wert the representative of thy royal line ; wert thou in 
Earl Robert’s place, thus, thus would Alan kneel to thee 
and hail thee king ! ” 

“ Peace, peace, thou foolish boy, the crown and sceptre 
have no charm for me; let me but see my country free, 
the tyrant humbled, my brother as my trusting spirit whis- 
pers he shall be, and Nigel asks no more.” 

“Art thou indeed so modest, gentle Nigel — is thy hap- 
piness so distinct from self? thine eyes tell other tales 
sometimes, and speak they false, fair sir ? ” 

Timidly, yet irresistibly, the maiden glanced up from 
her embroidery, but the gaze that met hers caused those 
bright eyes to fall more quickly than they were raised, and 
vainly for a few seconds did she endeavor so to steady her 
hand as to resume her task. Nigel was, however, spared 
reply, for a sharp and sudden bugle blast reverberated 
through the tower, and with an exclamation of wondering 
inquiry Alan bounded from the chamber. There was one 
other inmate of that apartment, whose presence, although 
known and felt, had, as was evident, been no restraint 
either to the employments or the sentiments of the two 
youths and their companion. Their conversation had not 
passed unheeded, although it had elicited no comment or 
rejoinder. The Countess of Buchan stood within one of 
those deep embrasures we have noticed, at times glancing 
toward the youthful group with an earnestness of sorrow- 
ing affection that seemed to have no measure in its depth, 
no shrinking in its might; at others, fixing a long, unmean- 
ing, yet somewhat anxious gaze on the wide plain and dis- 
tant ocean, which the casement overlooked. 

It was impossible to look once on the countenance of 
Isabella of Buchan, and yet forbear to look again. The 
calm dignity, the graceful majesty of her figure seemed to 
mark her as one born to command, to hold in willing hom- 
age the minds and inclinations of men ; her pure, pale brow 
and marble cheek — for the rich rose seemed a stranger 
there — the long silky lash of jet, the large, full, black eye, 


8 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


in its repose so soft that few would guess how it could flash 
fire, and light up those classic features with power to stir 
the stagnant souls of thousands and guide them with a 
word. She looked in feature as in form a queen; fitted to 
be beloved, formed to be obeyed. Her heavy robe of dark 
brocade, wrought with thick threads of gold, seemed well 
suited to her majestic form; its long, loose folds detracting 
naught from the graceful ease of her carriage. Her thick, 
glossy hair, vying in its rich blackness with the raven’s 
wing, was laid in smooth bands upon her stately brow, and 
gathered up behind in a careless knot, confined with a 
bodkin of massive gold. The hood or coif, formed of curi- 
ously twisted black and golden threads, which she wore in 
compliance with the Scottish custom, that thus made the 
distinction between the matron and the maiden, took not 
from the peculiarly graceful form of the head, nor in any 
part concealed the richness of the hair. Calm and pensive 
as was the general expression of her countenance, few 
could look upon it without that peculiar sensation of re- 
spect, approaching to awe, which restrained and conquered 
sorrow ever calls for. Perchance the cause of such emo- 
tion was all too delicate, too deeply veiled to be defined by 
those rude hearts who were yet conscious of its existence; 
and for them it was enough to own her power, bow before 
it, and fear her as a being set apart. 

Musingly she had stood looking forth on the wide 
waste; the distant ocean, whose tumbling waves one mo- 
ment gleamed in living light, at others immersed in inky 
blackness, were scarcely distinguished from the lowering 
sky. The moaning winds swept by, bearing the storm- 
cloud on their wings; patches of blue gleamed strangely 
and brightly forth; and, far in the west, crimson and am- 
ber, and pink and green, inlaid in beautiful mosaic the de- 
parting luminary’s place of rest. 

“ Alas, my gentle one,” she had internally responded to 
her daughter’s words, “ if thy mother’s patriot heart could 
find no shield for woe, nor her warrior fire, as thou deemest 
it, guard her from woman’s trials, what will be thy fate? 
This is no time for happy love, for peaceful joys, returned 
as it may be; for — may I doubt that truthful brow, that 
knightly soul (her glance was fixed on Nigel) — yet not now 
may the Scottish knight find rest and peace in woman’s 
love. And better is it thus — the land of the slave is no- 
home for love.” 

A faint yet a beautiful smile, dispersing as a momentary' 


THE DAYS OF DEUCE. 


9 


beam the anxiety stamped on her features, awoke at the 
enthusiastic reply of Nigel. Then she turned again to the 
casement, for her quick eye had discerned a party of about 
ten horsemen approaching in the direction of the tower, 
and on the summons of the bugle she advanced from her 
retreat to the centre of the apartment. 

“ Why, surely thou art but a degenerate descendant of 
the brave Macduff, mine Agnes, that a bugle blast should 
thus send back every drop of blood to thy little heart,” she 
said, playfully. “ For shame ! for shame ! how art thou fitted 
to be a warrior’s bride? They are but Scottish men, and 
true, methinks, if I recognize their leader rightly. And it 
is even so.” 

“ Sir Robert Keith, right welcome,” she added, as mar- 
shalled by young Alan, the knight appeared, bearing his 
plumed helmet in his hand, and displaying haste and eager- 
ness alike in his flushed features and soiled armor. 

“ Ye have ridden long and hastily. Bid them hasten 
our evening meal, my son ; or stay, perchance ' Sir Robert 
needs thine aid to rid him of this garb of war. Thou canst 
not serve one nobler.” 

“ Nay, noble lady, knights must don, not doff their 
armor now. I bring ye news, great, glorious news, which 
will not brook delay. A royal messenger I come, charged 
by his grace my king — my country’s king — with missives to 
his friends, calling on all who spurn a tyrant’s yoke — who 
love their land, their homes, their freedom — on all who 
wish for Wallace — to awake, arise, and join their patriot 
king ! ” 

“ Of whom speakest thou, Sir Robert Keith ? I charge 
thee, speak ! ” exclaimed Nigel, starting from the posture 
of dignified reserve with which he had welcomed the knight, 
and springing toward him. 

“ The patriot and the king ! — of whom canst thou 
speak?” said Alan, at the same instant. “Thine are, in 
very truth, marvellous tidings, Sir Knight; an’ thou canst 
call up one to unite such names, and worthy of them, he 
shall not call on me in vain.” 

“ Is he not worthy, Alan of Buchan, who thus flings 
down the gauntlet, who thus dares the fury of a mighty 
sovereign, and with a handful of brave men prepares to 
follow in the steps of Wallace, to the throne or to the scaf- 
fold?” 

“ Heed not my reckless boy. Sir Robert,” said the 
countess, earnestly, as the eyes of her son fell beneath the 


10 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


knight’s glance of fiery reproach ; “ no heart is truer to his 
country, no arm more eager to rise in her defence.” 

“ The king ! the king ! ” gasped Nigel, some strange 
overmastering emotion checking his utterance. “ Who is 
it that has thus dared, thus ” 

“ And canst thou too ask, young sir ? ” returned the 
knight, with a smile of peculiar meaning. “ Is thy sover- 
eign’s name unknown to thee? Is Robert Bruce a name 
unknown, unheard, unloved, that thou, too, breathest it 
not ? ” 

“ My brother, my brave, my noble brother ! — I saw it, I 
knew it ! Thou wert no changeling, no slavish neutral ; but 
even as I felt, thou art, thou wilt be! My brother, my 
brother, I may live and die for thee ! ” and the young en- 
thusiast raised his clasped hands above his head, as in 
speechless thanksgiving for these strange, exciting news; 
his flushed cheek, his quivering lip, his moistened eye be- 
traying an emotion which seemed for the space of a mo- 
ment to sink' on the hearts of all who witnessed it, and hush 
each feeling into silence. A shout from the court below 
broke that momentary pause. 

“ God save King Robert ! then, say I,” vociferated Alan, 
eagerly grasping the knight’s hand. “ Sit, sit, Sir Knight ; 
and for the love of Heaven, speak more of this most won- 
drous tale. Erewhile, we hear of this goodly Earl of Car- 
rick at Edward’s court, doing him homage, serving him as 
his own English knight, and now in Scotland — aye, and 
Scotland’s king. How may we reconcile these contradic- 
tions? ” 

“ Rather how did he vanish from the tyrant’s hundred 
eyes, and leave the court of England ? ” inquired Nigel, at 
the same instant as the Countess of Buchan demanded, 
somewhat anxiously: 

“And Sir John Comyn, recognizes he our sovereign’s 
claim ? Is he among the Bruce’s slender train ? ” 

A dark cloud gathered on the noble brow of the knight, 
replacing the chivalric courtesy with which he had hitherto 
responded to his interrogators. He paused ere he an- 
swered, in a stern, deep voice : 

“ Sir John Comyn lived and died a traitor, lady. He 
hath received the meed of his base treachery ; his traitorous 
design for the renewed slavery of his country — the im- 
prisonment and death of the only one that stood forth in 
her need.” 

“ And by whom did the traitor die ? ” fiercely demanded 


THE DAYS OF BItUCE. 


11 


the young heir of Buchan. “ Mother, thy cheek is 
blanched; yet wherefore? Comyn as I am, shall we claim 
kindred with a traitor, and turn away from the good cause, 
because, forsooth, a traitorous Comyn dies? No; were the 
Bruce’s own right hand red with the recreant’s blood — he 
only is the Comyn’s king.” 

“ Thou hast said it, youthful lord,” said the knight, 
impressively. “ Alan of Buchan, bear that bold heart and 
patriot sword unto the Bruce’s throne, and Comyn’s trait- 
orous name shall be forgotten in the scion of Macduff. 
Thy mother’s loyal blood runs reddest in thy veins, young 
sir; too pure for Comyn’s base alloy. Know, then, the 
Bruce’s hand is red with the traitor’s blood, and yet, fear- 
less and firm in the holy justice of his cause, he calls on 
his nobles and their vassals for their homage and their aid 
— lie calls on them to awake from their long sleep, and 
shake off the iron yoke from their necks; to prove that 
Scotland — the free, the dauntless, the unconquered soil, 
which once spurned the Boman power, to which all other 
kingdoms bowed — is free, undaunted, and unconquered 
still. He calls aloud, aye, even on ye, wife and son of 
Comyn of Buchan, to snap the link that binds ye to a 
traitor’s house, and prove — though darkly, basely flows the 
blood of Macduff in one descendant’s veins, that the Earl 
of Fife refuses homage and allegiance to his sovereign — in 
ye it rushes free, and bold, and loyal still.” 

“ And he shall find it so. Mother, why do ye not speak? 
You, from whose lips my heart first learnt to beat for Scot- 
land, my lips to pray that one might come to save her from 
the yoke of tyranny. You, who taught me to forget all 
private feud, to merge all feeling, every claim, in the one 
great hope of Scotland’s freedom. Now that the time is 
come, wherefore art thou thus? Mother, my own noble 
mother, let me go forth with thy blessing on my path, and 
ill and woe can come not near me. Speak to thy son ! ” 
The undaunted boy flung himself on his knee before the 
countess as he spoke. There was a dark and fearfully 
troubled expression on her noble features. She had 
clasped her hands together, as if to still or hide their un- 
wonted trembling; but when she looked on those bright 
and glowing features, there came a dark, dread vision of 
blood, and the axe and cord, and she folded her arms around 
his neck, and sobbed in all a mother’s irrepressible agony. 

“ My own, my beautiful, to what have I doomed thee ! ” 
she cried. “ To death, to woe ! aye, perchance, to that heav- 
2 


12 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


iest woe — a father’s curse ! exposing thee to death, to the ills 
of all who dare to strike for freedom. Alan, Alan, how can 
I bid thee forth to death? and yet it is I have taught thee 
to love it better than the safety of a slave; longed, prayed 
for this moment — deemed that for my country I could 
even give my child — and now, now — Oh God of mercy, give 
me strength ! ” 

She bent down her head on his, clasping him to her 
heart, as thus to still the tempest which had whelmed it. 
There is something terrible in that strong emotion which 
sometimes suddenly and unexpectedly overpowers the calm- 
est and most controlled natures. It speaks of an agony so 
measureless, so beyond the relief of sympathy, that it falls 
like an electric spell on the hearts of all witnesses, sweep- 
ing all minor passions into dust before it. Little accus- 
tomed as was Sir Robert Keith to sympathize in such emo- 
tions, he now turned hastily aside, and, as if fearing to 
trust himself in silence, commenced a hurried detail to 
Nigel Bruce of the Earl of Garrick’s escape from London, 
and his present position. The young nobleman endeavored 
to confine his attention to the subject, but his eyes would 
wander in the direction of Agnes, who, terrified at emo- 
tions which in her mother she had never witnessed before, 
was kneeling in tears beside her brother. 

A strong convulsive shuddering passed over the bowed 
frame of Isabella of Buchan; then she lifted up her head, 
and all traces of emotion had passed from her features. 
Silently she pressed her lips on the fair brows of her chil- 
dren alternately, and her voice faltered not as she bade 
them rise and heed her not. 

“We will speak further of this anon, Sir Robert,” she 
said, so calmly that the knight started. “ Hurried and im- 
portant as I deem your mission, the day is too far spent to 
permit of your departure until the morrow; you will honor 
our evening meal, and this true Scottish tower for a night’s 
lodging, and then we can have leisure for discourse on the 
weighty matters you have touched upon.” • 

She bowed courteously, as she turned with a slow, un- 
faltering step to leave the room. Her resumed dignity re- 
called the bewildered senses of her son, and, with graceful 
courtesy, he invited the knight to follow him, and choose 
his lodging for the night. 

“ Agnes, mine own Agnes, now, indeed, may I win 
thee,” whispered Nigel, as tenderly he folded his arm round 
her, and looked fondly in her face. “ Scotland shall be 


THE DAYS OP BRUCE. 


13 


free! her tyrants banished by her patriot king; and then, 
then may not Nigel Bruce look to this little hand as his 
reward? Shall not, may not the thought of thy pure, 
gentle love be mine, in the tented field and battle’s roar, 
urging me on, even should all other voice be hushed ? ” 

“Forgettest thou I am a Comyn, Nigel? That the 
dark stain of traitor, of disloyalty is withering on our line, 
and wider and wider grows the barrier between us and the 
Bruce ? ” The voice of the maiden was choked, her bright 
eyes dim with tears. 

“ All, all I do forget, save that thou art mine own sweet 
love; and though thy name is Comyn, thy heart is all 
Macdufi. Weep not, my Agnes; thine eyes were never 
framed for tears. Bright times for us and Scotland are 
yet in store ! ” 


CHAPTER II. 

For the better comprehension of the events related in 
the preceding chapter, it will be necessary to cast a sum- 
mary glance on matters of historical and domestic import 
no way irrelevant to our subject, save and except their hav- 
ing taken place some few years previous to the commence- 
ment of our tale. 

The early years of Isabella of Buchan had been passed 
in happiness. The only daughter, indeed for seven years 
the only child, of Malcolm, Earl of Fife, deprived of her 
mother on the birth of her brother, her youth had been 
nursed in a tenderness and care uncommon in those rude 
ages; and yet, from being constantly with her father, she 
imbibed those higher qualities of mind which so ably fitted 
her for the part which in after years it was her lot to play. 
The last words of his devoted wife, imploring him to edu- 
cate her child himself, and not to sever the tie between 
them, by following the example of his compeers, and send- 
ing her either to England, France, or Norway, had been 
zealously observed by the earl; the prosperous calm, which 
was the happy portion of Scotland during the latter years 
of Alexander III., whose favorite minister he was, enabled 
him to adhere to her wishes far more successfully than 
could have been the case had he been called forth to war. 

In her father’s castle, then, were the first thirteen years 


u 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


of the Lady Isabella spent, varied only by occasional visits 
to the court of Alexander, where her beauty and vivacity 
rendered her a universal favorite. Descended from one of 
the most ancient Scottish families, whose race it was their 
boast had never been adulterated by the blood of a for- 
eigner, no Norman prejudice intermingled with the educa- 
tion of Isabella, to tarnish in any degree those principles 
of loyalty and patriotism which her father, the Earl of 
Fife, so zealously inculcated. She was a more true, de- 
voted Scottish woman at fourteen, than many of her own 
rank whose years might double hers; ready even then to 
sacrifice even life itself, were it called for in defence of 
her sovereign, or the freedom of her country; and when, 
on the death of Alexander, clouds began to darken the hori- 
zon of Scotland, her father scrupled not to impart to her, 
child though she seemed, those fears and anxieties which 
clouded his brow, and filled his spirit with foreboding 
gloom. It was then that in her flashing eye and lofty soul, 
in the undaunted spirit, which bore a while even his colder 
and more foreseeing mood along with it, that he traced the 
fruit whose seed he had so carefully sown. 

“ Why should you fear for Scotland, my father ? ” she 
would urge ; “ is it because her queen is but a child and 
now far distant, that anarchy and gloom shall enfold our 
land ? Is it not shame in ye thus craven to deem her sons, 
when in thy own breast so much devotion and loyalty have 
rest? why not judge others by yourself, my father, and 
know the dark things of which ye dream can never be ? ” 

“ Thou speakest as the enthusiast thou art, my child. 
Yet it is not the rule of our maiden queen my foreboding 
spirit dreads; *tis that on such a slender thread as her 
young life suspends the well-doing or the ruin of her king- 
dom. If she be permitted to live and reign over us, all 
may be well; Tis on the event of her death for which I 
tremble.” 

“Wait till the evil day cometh then, my father; bring 
it not nearer by anticipation; and should indeed such be, 
thinkest thou not there are bold hearts and loyal souls to 
guard our land from foreign foe, and give the rightful heir 
his due? ” 

“ I know not, Isabella. There remain but few with the 
pure Scottish blood within their veins, and it is but to 
them our land is so dear; they would peril life and limb in 
her defence. It is not to the proud baron descended from 
the intruding Norman, and thinking only of his knightly 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


15 


sports and increase of wealth, by it matters not what war. 
Nor dare we look with confidence to the wild chiefs of the 
north and the Lords of the Isles ; eager to enlarge their own 
dominions, to extend the terrors of their name, they will 
gladly welcome the horrors and confusion that may arise; 
and have we true Scottish blood enough to weigh against 
these, my child ? Alas ! Isabella, our only hope is in the 
health and well-doing of our queen, precarious as that is; 
but if she fail us, woe to Scotland ! ” 

The young Isabella could not bring forward any solid 
arguments in answer to this reasoning, and therefore she 
was silent; but she felt her Scottish blood throb quicker in 
her veins, as he spoke of the few pure Scottish men remain- 
ing, and inwardly vowed, woman as she was, to devote both 
energy and life to her country and its sovereign. 

Unhappily for his children, though perhaps fortunately 
for himself, the Earl of Fife was spared the witnessing in 
the miseries of his country how true had been his forebod- 
ings. Two years after the death of his king, he was found 
dead in his bed, not without strong suspicion of poison. 
Public rumor pointed to his uncle, Macduff of Glamis, as 
the instigator, if not the actual perpetrator of the deed; 
but as no decided proof could be alleged against him, and 
the High Courts of Scotland not seeming inclined to pur- 
sue the investigation, the rumor ceased, and Macduff as- 
sumed, with great appearance of zeal, the guardianship of 
the young Earl of Fife and his sister, an office bequeathed 
to him under the hand and seal of the earl, his nephew. 

• The character of the Lady Isabella was formed ; that of 
her brother, a child of eight, of course was not; and the 
deep, voiceless suffering her father’s loss occasioned her 
individually was painfully heightened by the idea that to 
her young brother his death was an infinitely greater mis- 
fortune than to herself. He indeed knew not, felt not the 
agony which bound her ; he knew not the void which was on 
her soul; how utterly, unspeakably lonely that heart had 
become, accustomed as it had been to repose its every 
thought, and hope, and wish, and feeling on a parent’s love ; 
yet notwithstanding this, her clear mind felt and saw that 
while for herself there was little fear that she should waver 
in those principles so carefully instilled, for her brother there 
was much, very much to dread. She did not and could not 
repose confidence in her kinsman; for her parent’s sake 
she struggled to prevent dislike, to compel belief that the 
suavity, even kindness of his manner, the sentiments which 


16 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


he expressed, had their foundation in sincerity; but when 
her young brother became solely and entirely subject to 
his influence, she could no longer resist the conviction that 
their guardian was not the fittest person for the formation 
of a patriot. She could not, she would not believe the 
rumor which had once, but once, reached her ears, uniting 
the hitherto pure line of Macduff with midnight murder; 
her own noble mind rejected the idea as a thing utterly 
and wholly impossible, the more so perhaps, as she knew her 
father had been latterly subject to an insidious disease, baf- 
fling all the leech’s art, and which he himself had often 
warned her would terminate suddenly; yet still an inward 
shuddering would cross her heart at times, when in his 
presence; she could not define the cause, or why she felt it 
sometimes and not always, and so she sought to subdue it, 
but she sought in vain. 

Meanwhile an event approached materially connected 
with the Lady Isabella, and whose consummation the late 
Thane of Fife had earnestly prayed he might have been 
permitted to hallow with his blessing. Alexander Comyn, 
Earl of Buchan and High Constable of Scotland, had been 
from early youth the brother in arms and dearest friend of 
the Earl of Fife, and in the romantic enthusiasm which 
ever characterized the companionship of chivalry, they had 
exchanged a mutual vow that in after years, should Heaven 
grant them children, a yet nearer and dearer tie should 
unite their houses. The birth of Isabella, two years after 
that of an heir to Buchan, was hailed with increased de- 
light by both fathers, and from her earliest years she was 
accustomed to look to the Lord John as her future hus- 
band. Perhaps had they been much thrown together, Isa- 
bella’s high and independent spirit would have rebelled 
against this wish of her father, and preferred the choosing 
for herself ; but from the ages of eleven and nine they had 
been separated, the Earl of Buchan sending his son, much 
against the advice of his friend, to England, imagining 
that there, and under such a knight as Prince Edward, he 
would better learn the noble art of war and all chivalric 
duties, than in the more barbarous realm of Scotland. To 
Isabella, then, her destined husband was a stranger; yet 
with a heart too young and unsophisticated to combat her 
parent’s wishes, by any idea of its affections becoming 
otherwise engaged, and judging of the son by the father, 
to whom she was ever a welcome guest, and who in himself 
was indeed a noble example of chivalry and honor, Isabella 


THE DAYS OF BEUCE. 


17 


neither felt nor expressed any repugnance to her father’s 
wish, that she should sign her name to a contract of be- 
trothal, drawn up by the venerable abbot of Buchan, and to 
which the name of Lord John had been already appended; 
it was the lingering echoes of that deep, yet gentle voice, 
blessing her compliance to his wishes, which thrilled again 
and again to her heart, softening her grief, even when that 
beloved voice was hushed forever, and she had no thought, 
no wish to recall that promise, nay, even looked to its con- 
summation with joy, as a release from the companionship, 
nay, as at times she felt, the wardance of her kinsman. 

But this calm and happy frame of mind was not per- 
mitted to be of long continuance. In one of the brief in- 
tervals of Macduff’s absence from the castle, about eighteen 
months after her father’s death, the young earl prevailed 
on the aged retainer in whose charge he had been left, to 
consent to his going forth to hunt the red deer, a sport of 
which, boy as he was, he was passionately fond. In joyous 
spirits, and attended by a gallant train, he set out, calling 
for and receiving the ready sympathy of his sister, who re- 
joiced as himself in his emancipation from restraint, which 
either was, or seemed to be, adverse to the usual treatment 
of noble youths. 

Somewhat sooner than Isabella anticipated, they re- 
turned. Earl Duncan, with a wilfulness which already 
characterized him, weary of the extreme watchfulness of his 
attendants, who, in their anxiety to keep him from danger, 
checked and interfered with his boyish wish to signalize 
himself by some daring deed of agility and skill, at length 
separated himself, except from one or two as wilful, and 
but little older than himself. The young lord possessed 
all the daring of his race, but skill and foresight he needed 
greatly, and dearly would he have paid for his rashness. A 
young and fiery bull had chanced to cross his path, and dis- 
regarding the ‘entreaties of his followers, he taunted them 
with cowardice, and goaded the furious animal to the en- 
counter; too late he discovered that he had neither skill 
nor strength for the combat he had provoked, and had it 
not been for the strenuous exertions of a stranger youth, 
who diverted aside the fury of the beast, he must have 
fallen a victim to his thoughtless daring. Curiously, and 
almost enviously, he watched the combat between the 
stranger and the bull, nor did any emotion of gratitude 
rise in the boy’s breast to soften the bitterness with which 
he regarded the victory of the former, which the reproaches 


18 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


of his retainers, who at that instant came up, and their 
condemnation of his folly, did not tend to diminish; and 
almost sullenly he passed to the rear, on their return, leav- 
ing Sir Malise Duff to make the acknowledgments, which 
should have come from him, and courteously invite the 
young stranger to accompany them home, an invitation 
which, somewhat to the discomposure of Earl Duncan, was 
accepted. 

If the stranger had experienced any emotion of anger 
from the boy’s slight of his services, the gratitude of the 
Lady Isabella would have banished it on the instant, and 
amply repaid them; with cheeks glowing, eyes glistening, 
and a voice quivering with suppressed emotion, she had 
spoken her brief yet eloquent thanks; and had he needed 
further proof, the embrace she lavished on her young brother, 
as reluctantly, and after a long interval, he entered the hall, 
said yet more than her broken words. 

“ Thou art but a fool, Isabella, craving thy pardon,” 
was his ungracious address, as he sullenly freed himself 
from her. “ Had I brought thee the bull's horns, there 
might have been some cause for this marvellously warm 
welcome ; but as it is ” 

“ I joy thou wert not punished for thy rashness, Dun- 
can. Yet ’twas not in such mood I hoped to find thee; 
knowest thou that ’tis to yon brave stranger thou owest 
thy life ? ” 

“ Better it had been forfeited, than that he should stand 
between me and mine honor. I thank him not for it, nor 
owe him aught like gratitude.” 

“ Peace, ungrateful boy, an thou knowest not thy sta- 
tion better,” was his sister’s calm, yet dignified reply; and 
the stranger smiled, and by his courteous manner, speedily 
dismissed her fears as to the impression of her brother’s 
words, regarding them as the mere petulance of a child. 

Days passed, and still the stranger lingered ; eminently 
handsome, his carriage peculiarly graceful, and even dig- 
nified, although it was evident, from the slight, and as it 
were, unfinished roundness of his figure, that he was but in 
the first stage of youth, yet his discourse and manner were 
of a kind that would bespeak him noble, even had his ap- 
pearance been less convincing. According to the custom 
of the time, which would have deemed the questioning a 
guest as to his name and family a breach of all the rules 
of chivalry and hospitality, he remained unknown. 

“ Men call me Sir Robert, though I have still my spurs 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


19 


to win,” he had once said, laughingly, to Lady Isabella and 
her kinsman, Sir Malise Duff, “ but I would not proclaim 
my birth till I may bring it honor.” 

A month passed ere their guest took his departure, leav- 
ing regard and regret behind him, in all, perhaps, save in 
the childish breast of Earl Duncan, whose sullen manner 
had never changed. There was a freshness and light- 
heartedness, and a wild spirit of daring gallantry about 
the stranger that fascinated, men scarce knew wheref ore ; a 
reckless independence of sentiment which charmed, from 
the utter absence of all affectation which it comprised. To 
all, save to the Lady Isabella, he was a mere boy, younger 
even than his years; but in conversation with her his supe- 
rior mind shone forth, proving he could in truth appreciate 
hers, and give back intellect for intellect, feeling for feel- 
ing; perhaps her beauty and unusual endowments had left 
their impression upon him. However it may be, one day, 
one little day after the departure of Sir Robert, Isabella 
woke to the consciousness that the calm which had so long 
rested on her spirit had departed, and forever; and to what 
had it given place? Had she dared to love, she, the be- 
trothed, the promised bride of another? Ho; she could not 
have sunk thus low, her heart had been too long controlled 
to rebel now. She might not, she would not listen to its 
voice, to its wild, impassioned throbs. Alas! she miscal- 
culated her own power; the fastnesses she had deemed se- 
cure were forced; they closed upon their subtle foe, and 
held their conqueror prisoner. 

But Isabella was not one to waver in a determination 
when once formed; how might she break asunder links 
which the dead had hallowed? She became the bride of 
Lord John; she sought with her whole soul to forget the 
past, and love him according to her bridal vow, and as time 
passed she ceased to think of that beautiful vision of her 
early youth, save as a dream that had had no resting; and 
a mother’s fond yearnings sent their deep delicious sweet- 
ness as oil on the troubled waters of her heart. She might 
have done this, but unhappily she too soon discovered her 
husband was not one to offer aid in her unsuspected task, 
to soothe and guide, and by his affection demand her grati- 
tude and reverence. Enwrapped in selfishness or haughty 
indifference, his manner toward her ever harsh, unbending, 
and suspicious, Isabella’s pride would have sustained her, 
had not her previous trial lowered her in self-esteem; but 
as it was, meekly and silently she bore with the continued 


20 


THE DAYS OF BEUCE. 


outbreak of unrestrained passion, and never wavered from 
the path of duty her clear mind had laid down. 

On the birth of a son, however, her mind regained its 
tone, and inwardly yet solemnly she vowed that no mis- 
taken sense of duty to her husband should interfere with 
the education of her son. As widely opposed as were their 
individual characters, so were the politics of the now Earl 
and Countess of Buchan. Educated in England, on 
friendly terms with her king, he had, as the Earl of Fife an- 
ticipated, lost all nationality, all interest in Scotland, and 
as willingly and unconcernedly taken the vows of homage 
to John Baliol, as the mere representative and lieutenant 
of Edward, as he would have done to a free and unlimited 
king. He had been among the very first to vote for calling 
in the King of England as umpire; the most eager to sec- 
ond and carry out all Edward’s views, and consequently 
high in that monarch’s favor, a reputation which his en- 
mity to the house of Bruce, one of the most troublesome 
competitors of the crown, did not tend to diminish. For- 
tunately perhaps for Isabella, the bustling politics of her 
husband constantly divided them. The births of a daughter 
and son had no effect in softening his hard and selfish 
temper; he looked on them more as incumbrances than 
pleasures, and leaving the countess in the strong Tower of 
Buchan, he himself, with a troop of armed and mounted 
Comyns, attached himself to the court and interests of Ed- 
ward, seeming to forget that such beings as a wife and chil- 
dren had existence. Months, often years, would stretch 
between the earl’s visits to his mountain home, and then a 
week was the longest period of his lingering; but no evi- 
dence of a gentler spirit or of less indifference to his chil- 
dren was apparent, and years seemed to have turned to 
positive evil, qualities which in youth had merely seemed 
unamiable. 

Desolate as the situation of the countess might per- 
haps appear, she found solace and delight in moulding the 
young minds of her children according to the pure and ele- 
vated cast of her own. All the long-suppressed tenderness 
of her nature was lavished upon them, and on their inno- 
cent love she sought to rest the passionate yearnings of her 
own. She taught them to be patriots, in the purest, most 
beautiful appropriation of the term — to spurn the yoke of 
the foreigner, and the oppressor, however light and flowery 
the links of that yoke might seem. She could not bid 
them love and revere their father as she longed to do, but 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


21 


she taught them that where their duty to their .country and 
their free and unchained king interfered not, in all things 
they must obey and serve their father, and seek to win 
his love. 

Once only had the Countess of Buchan beheld the vision 
which had crossed her youth. He had come, it seemed un- 
conscious of his track, and asked hospitality for a night, 
evidently without knowing who was the owner of the 
castle; perhaps his thoughts were preoccupied, for a deep 
gloom was on his brow, and though he had started with 
evident pleasure when recognizing his beautiful hostess, 
the gloom speedily resumed ascendency. It was but a few 
weeks after the fatal battle of Falkirk, and therefore Isa- 
bella felt there was cause enough for depression and uneasi- 
ness. The graces of boyhood had given place to a finished 
manliness of deportment, a calmer expression of feature, 
denoting that years had changed and steadied the char- 
acter, even as the form. He then seemed as one laboring 
under painful and heavy thought, as one brooding over 
some mighty change within, as if some question of weighty 
import were struggling with recollections and visions of 
the past. He had spoken little, evidently shrinking in pain 
from all reference to or information on the late engage- 
ment. He tarried not long, departing with dawn next day, 
and they did not meet again. 

And what had been the emotions of the countess? per- 
haps her heart had throbbed, and her cheek pal'ed and 
flushed, at this unexpected meeting with one she had fer- 
vently prayed never to see again; but not one feeling ob- 
tained ascendency in that heart which she would have 
dreaded to unveil to the eye of her husband. She did in- 
deed feel that had her lot been cast otherwise, it must have 
been a happy one, but the thought was transient. She was 
a wife, a mother, and in the happiness of her children, her 
youth, and all its joys and pangs, and dreams and hopes, 
were merged, to be recalled no more. 

The task of instilling patriotic sentiments in the breast 
of her son had been insensibly aided by the countess’s in- 
dependent position amid the retainers of Buchan. This 
earldom had only been possessed by the family of Comyn 
since the latter years of the reign of William the Lion, 
passing into their family by the marriage of Margaret 
Countess of Buchan with Sir William Comyn, a knight of 
goodly favor and repute. This interpolation and ascend- 
ency of strangers was a continual source of jealousy and 


22 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


ire to the ancient retainers of the olden heritage, and con- 
tinually threatened to break out into open feud, had not 
the soothing policy of the Countess Margaret and her de- 
scendants, by continually employing them together in sub- 
jecting other petty clans, contrived to keep them in good 
humor. As long as their lords were loyal to Scotland and 
her king, and behaved so as to occasion no unpleasant com- 
parison between them and former superiors, all went on 
smoothly ; but the haughty and often outrageous conduct of 
the present earl, his utter neglect of their interests, his 
treasonous politics, speedily roused the slumbering fire into 
flame. A secret yet solemn oath went round the clan, by 
which every fighting man bound himself to rebel against 
their master, rather than betray their country by siding 
with a foreign tyrant ; to desert their homes, their all, and 
disperse singly midst the fastnesses and rocks of Scotland, 
than lift up a sword against her freedom. The sentiments 
of the countess were very soon discovered; and even yet 
stronger than the contempt and loathing with which they 
looked upon the earl was the love, the veneration they bore 
to her and to her children. If his mother’s lips had been 
silent, the youthful heir would have learned loyalty and 
patriotism from his brave though unlettered retainers, as 
it was to them he owed the skill and grace with which he 
sate his fiery steed, and poised his heavy lance, and wielded 
his stainless brand — to them he owed all the chivalric ac- 
complishments of the day ; and though he had never quitted 
the territories of Buchan, he would have found few to 
compete with him in his high and gallant spirit. 

Dark and troubled was the political aspect of unhappy 
Scotland, at the eventful period at which our tale com- 
mences. The barbarous and most unjust execution of Sir 
William Wallace had struck the whole country as with a 
deadly panic, from which it seemed there was not one to 
rise to cast aside the heavy chains, whose weight it seemed 
had crushed the whole kingdom, and taken from it the last 
gleams of patriotism and of hope. Every fortress of 
strength and consequence was in possession of the English. 
English soldiers, English commissioners, English judges, 
laws, and regulations now filled and governed Scotland. 
The abrogation of all those ancient customs, which had 
descended from the Celts and Piets, and Scots, fell upon 
the hearts of all true Scottish men as the tearing asun- 
der the last links of freedom, and branding them as slaves. 
Her principal nobles, strangely and traitorously, preferred 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


23 


safety and wealth, in the acknowledgment and servitude 
of Edward, to glory and honor in the service of their coun- 
try ; and the spirits of the middle ranks yet spurned the in- 
glorious yoke, and throbbed but for one to lead them on, if 
not to victory, at least to an honorable death. That one 
seemed not to rise ; it was as if the mighty soul of Scotland 
had departed when Wallace slept in death. 


CHAPTER III. 

A bustling and joyous aspect did the ancient town of 
Scone present near the end of March, 1306. Subdued in- 
deed, and evidently under some restraint and mystery, 
which might be accounted for by the near vicinity of the 
English, who were quartered in large numbers over almost 
the whole of Perthshire; some, however, appeared exempt 
from these most unwelcome guests. The nobles, esquires, 
yeomen, and peasants — all, by their national garb and 
eager yet suppressed voices, might be known at once as 
Scotsmena?ight and true. 

It had been long, very long since the old quiet town 
had witnessed such busy groups and such eager tongues as 
on all sides thronged it now; the very burghers and men 
of handicraft wore on their countenances tokens of some- 
thing momentous. There were smiths* shops opening on 
every side, armorers at work, anvils clanging, spears sharp- 
ening, shields burnishing, bits and steel saddles and sharp 
spurs meeting the eye at every turn. Ever and anon, came 
a burst of enlivening music, and well mounted and gallantly 
attired, attended by some twenty or fifty followers, as may 
be, would gallop down some knight or noble, his armor 
flashing back a hundred fold the rays of the setting sun; 
his silken pennon displayed, the device of which seldom 
failed to excite a hearty cheer from the excited crowds; 
his stainless shield and heavy spear borne by his attendant 
esquires; his visor up, as if he courted and dared recogni- 
tion ; his surcoat, curiously and tastefully embroidered ; his 
gold or silver-sheathed and hilted sword suspended by the 
silken sash of many folds and brilliant coloring. On foot 
or on horseback, these noble cavaliers were continually pass- 
ing and repassing the ancient streets, singly or in groups; 


24 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


then there were their followers, all carefully and strictly 
armed, in the buff coat plaited with steel, the well-quilted 
bonnet, the huge broad-sword; Highlanders in their pecu- 
liar and graceful costume; even the stout farmers, who 
might also be found among this motley assemblage, wear- 
ing the iron hauberk and sharp sword beneath their appar- 
ently peaceful garb. Friars in their gray frocks and black 
cowls, and stately burghers and magistrates, in their velvet 
cloaks and gold chains, continually mingled their peaceful 
forms with their more warlike brethren, and lent a yet 
more varied character to the stirring picture. 

Varied as were the features of this moving multitude, 
the expression on every countenance, noble and follower, 
yeoman and peasant, burgher and even monk, was invari- 
ably the same — a species of strong yet suppressed excite- 
ment, sometimes shaded by anxiety, sometimes lighted by 
hope, almost amounting to triumph; sometimes the dark 
frown of scorn and hate would pass like a thunder-cloud 
over noble brows, and the mailed hand unconsciously 
clutched the sword; and then the low thrilling laugh of de- 
risive contempt would disperse the shade, and the muttered 
oath of vengeance drown the voice of execration. It would 
have been a strange yet mighty study, the face of man in 
that old town; but men were all too much excited to ob- 
serve their fellows: to them it was enough — unspoken, un- 
imparted wisdom as it was — to know, to feel, one common 
feeling bound that varied mass of men, one mighty in- 
terest made them brothers. 

The ancient Palace of Scone, so long unused, was now 
evidently the headquarters of the noblemen hovering about 
the town, for whatever purpose they were there assembled. 
The heavy flag of Scotland, in all its massive quarterings, 
as the symbol of a free unfettered kingdom, waved from 
the centre tower; archers and spearmen lined the courts, 
sentinels were at their posts, giving and receiving the 
watchword from all who passed and repassed the heavy 
gates, which from dawn till nightfall were flung wide open, 
as if the inmates of that regal dwelling were ever ready to 
receive their friends, and feared not the approach of foes. 

The sun, though sinking, was still bright, when the slow 
and dignified approach of the venerable abbot of Scone oc- 
casioned some stir and bustle amid the joyous occupants 
of the palace yard; the wild joke was hushed, the noisy 
brawl subsided, the games of quoit and hurling the bar a 
while suspended, and the silence of unaffected reverence 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


25 


awaited the good old man’s approach and kindly-given 
benediction. Leaving his attendants in one of the lower 
rooms, the abbot proceeded up the massive stone staircase, 
and along a broad and lengthy passage, darkly panelled 
with thick oak, then pushing aside some heavy arras, stood 
within one of the state chambers, and gave his fervent 
benison on one within. This was a man in the earliest 
and freshest prime of life, that period uniting all the grace 
and beauty of youth with the mature thought, and steady 
wisdom, and calmer views of manhood. That he was of 
noble birth and blood and training one glance sufficed; 
peculiarly and gloriously distinguished in the quiet maj- 
esty of his figure, in the mild attempered gravity of his 
commanding features. Nature herself seemed to have 
marked him out for the distinguished part it was his to play. 
Already there were lines of thought upon the clear and 
open brow, and round the mouth; and the blue eye shone 
with that calm, steady lustre, which seldom comes till the 
changeful fire and wild visions of dreamy youth have de- 
parted. His hair, of rich and glossy brown, fell in loose 
natural curls on either side his face, somewhat lower than 
his throat, shading his cheeks, which, rather pale than other- 
wise, added to the somewhat grave aspect of his countenance, 
his armor of steel richly and curiously inlaid with bur- 
nished gold, sat lightly and easily upon his peculiarly tall 
and manly figure; a sash, of azure silk and gold, sus- 
pended his sword, whose sheath was in unison with the 
rest of his armor, though the hilt was' studded with gems. 
His collar was also of gold, as were his gauntlets, which 
with his helmet rested on a table near him; a coronet of 
plain gold surmounted his helmet, and on his surcoat, 
which lay on a seat at the further end of the room, might 
be discerned the rampant lion of Scotland, surmounted by 
a crown. 

The apartment in which he stood, though shorn of much 
of that splendor which, ere the usurping invasion of Ed- 
ward of England, had distinguished it, still bore evidence 
of being a chamber of some state. The hangings were of 
dark-green velvet embroidered, and with a very broad fringe 
of gold; drapery of the same costly material adorned the 
broad casements, which stood in heavy frames of oak, black 
as ebony. Large folding-doors, with panels of the same 
beautiful material, richly carved, opened into an ante-cham- 
ber, and thence to the grand staircase and more public parts 
of the building. In this ante-chamber were now assembled 


26 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


pages, esquires, and other officers bespeaking a royal house- 
hold, though much less numerous than is generally the 
case. 

“ Sir Edward and the young Lord of Douglas have not 
returned, sayest thou, good Athelbert ? Knowest thou 
when and for what went they forth ? ” were the words which 
were spoken by the noble we have described, as the abbot 
entered, unperceived at first, from his having avoided the 
public entrance to the state rooms; they were addressed to 
an esquire, who, with cap in hand and head somewhat low- 
ered, respectfully awaited the commands of his master. 

“ They said not the direction of their course, my liege ; 
’tis thought to reconnoitre either the movements of the 
English, or to ascertain the cause of the delay of the Lord 
of Fife. They departed at sunrise, with but few fol- 
lowers.^ 

“ On but a useless errand, good Athelbert, methinks, an 
they hope to greet Earl Duncan, save with a host of Eng- 
lish at his back. Bid Sir Edward hither, should he return 
ere nightfall, and see to the instant delivery of those 
papers; I fear me, the good lord bishop has waited for 
them; and stay — Sir Robert Keith, hath he not yet re- 
turned?” 

“ No, good my lord.” 

“ Ha ! he tarried long,” answered the noble, musingly. 
“Now Heaven forefend no evil hath befallen him; but to 
thy mission, Athelbert, I must not detain thee with doubts 
and cavil. Ha ! reverend father, right welcome,” he added, 
perceiving him as he turned again to the table, on the 
esquire reverentially withdrawing from his presence, and 
bending his head humbly in acknowledgment of the abbot’s 
benediction. “ Thou findest me busied as usual. Seest 
thou,” he pointed to a rough map of Scotland lying before 
him, curiously intersected with mystic lines and crosses, 
“ Edinburgh, Berwick, Roxburgh, Lanark, Stirling, Dum- 
barton, in the power of, nay peopled, by English. Argyle 
on the west, Elgin, Aberdeen, with Banff eastward, teeming 
with proud, false Scots, hereditary foes to the Bruce, false 
traitors to their land; the north — why, ’tis the same foul 
tale; and yet I dare to raise my banner, dare to wear the 
crown, and fling defiance in the teeth of all. What sayest 
thou, father — is’t not a madman’s deed ? ” 

All appearance of gravity vanished from his features as 
he spoke. His eye, seemingly so mild, flashed till its very 
color could not have been distinguished, his cheek glowed, 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


27 


his lip curled, and his voice, ever peculiarly rich and sono- 
rous, deepened with the excitement of soul. 

“ Were the fate of man in his own hands, were it his 
and his alone to make or mar his destiny, I should e’en 
proclaim thee mad, my son, and seek to turn thee from thy 
desperate purpose; but it is not so. Man is but an instru- 
ment, and He who urged thee to this deed, who wills not 
this poor land to rest enslaved, will give thee strength and 
wisdom for its freedom. His ways are not as man’s; and 
circled as thou seemest with foes, His strength shall bring 
thee forth and gird thee with His glory. Thou wouldst 
not turn aside, my son — thou fearest not thy foes ? ” 

“Fear! holy father: it is a word unknown to the chil- 
dren of the Bruce ! I do but smile at mine extensive king- 
dom — of some hundred acres square ; smile at the eagerness 
with which they greet me liege and king, as if the words, 
so long unused, should now do double duty for long ab- 
sence.” 

“ And better so, my son,” answered the old man, cheer- 
fully. “ Devotion to her destined savior argues well for 
bonny Scotland; better do homage unto thee as liege and 
king, though usurpation hath abridged thy kingdom, than 
to the hireling of England’s Edward, all Scotland at his 
feet. Men will not kneel to sceptred slaves, nor freemen 
fight for tyrants’ tools. Sovereign of Scotland thou art, 
thou shalt be, Kobert the Bruce! Too long hast thou kept 
back; but now, if arms can fight and hearts can pray, thou 
shalt be king of Scotland.” 

The abbot spoke with a fervor, a spirit which, though 
perhaps little accordant with his clerical character, thrilled 
to the Bruce’s heart. He grasped the old man’s hand. 

“ Holy father,” he said, “ thou wouldst inspire hearts 
with ardor needing inspiration more than mine ; and to me 
thou givest hope, and confidence, and strength. Too long 
have I slept and dreamed,” his countenance darkened, and 
his voice was sadder ; “ fickle in purpose, uncertain in ac- 
complishment ; permitting my youth to moulder ’neath the 
blasting atmosphere of tyranny. Yet will I now atone for 
the neglected past. Atone! aye, banish it from the minds 
of men. My country hath a claim, a double claim upon 
me; she calls upon me, trumpet-tongued, to arise, avenge 
her, and redeem my misspent youth. Nor shall she call on 
me in vain, so help me, gracious Heaven ! ” 

“ Amen,” fervently responded the abbot ; and the king 
continued more hurriedly: 

3 


28 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


“ And that stain, that blot, father ? Is there mercy in 
heaven to wash its darkness from my soul, or must it 
linger there forever preying on my spirit, dashing e’en its 
highest hopes and noblest dreams with poison, whispering 
its still voice of accusation, even when loudest rings the 
praise and love of men? Is there no rest for this, no si- 
lence for that whisper? Penitence, atonement, anything 
thou wilt, let but my soul be free ! ” Hastily, and with step 
and countenance disordered, he traversed the chamber, his 
expressive countenance denoting the strife within. 

“ It was, in truth, a rash and guilty deed, my son,” an- 
swered the abbot, gravely, yet mildly, “ and one that heaven 
in its justice will scarce pass unavenged. Man hath given 
thee the absolution accorded to the true and faithful peni- 
tent, for such thou art ; yet scarcely dare we hope offended 
heaven is appeased. Justice will visit thee with trouble — 
sore, oppressing, grievous trouble. Yet despair not: thou 
wilt come forth the purer, nobler, brighter, from the fire; 
despair not, but as a child receive a father’s chastening; 
lean upon that love, which wills not death, but penitence 
and life; that love, which yet will bring thee forth and 
bless this land in thee. My son, be comforted; His mercy 
is yet greater than thy sin.” 

“ And blest art thou, my father, for these blessed words; 
a messenger in truth thou art of peace and love; and oh, 
if prayers and penitence avail, if sore temptation may be 
pleaded, I shall, I shall be pardoned. Yet would I give my 
dearest hopes of life, of fame, of all — save Scotland’s free- 
dom — that this evil had not chanced; that blood, his blood 
- — base traitor as he was — was not upon my hand.” 

“ And can it be thou art such craven, Robert, as to re- 
pent a Comyn’s death — a Comyn, and a traitor — e’en 
though his dastard blood be on thy hand? — bah! An such 
deeds weigh heavy on thy mind, a friar’s cowl were better 
suited to thy brow than Scotland’s diadem.” 

The speaker was a tall, powerful man, somewhat 
younger in appearance than the king, but with an expres- 
sion of fierceness and haughty pride, contrasting powerfully 
with the benevolent and native dignity which so character- 
ized the Bruce. His voice was as harsh as his manner was 
abrupt; yet that he was brave, nay, rash in his unthinking 
daring, a very transient glance would suffice to discover. 

“ I forgive thee thine undeserved taunt, Edward,” an- 
swered the king, calmly, though the hot blood rushed up 
to his cheek and brow. “ I trust, ere long, to prove thy 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


29 


words are as idle as the mood which prompted them. I 
feel not that repentance cools the patriot fire which urges 
me to strike for Scotland’s weal — that sorrow for a hated 
crime unfits me for a warrior. I would not Comyn lived, 
but that he had met a traitor’s fate by other hands than 
mine; been judged — condemned, as his black treachery 
called for; even for our country’s sake, it had been better 
thus.” 

“ Thou art over-scrupulous, my liege and brother, and I 
too hasty,” replied Sir Edward Bruce, in the same bold, 
careless tone. “ Yet beshrew me, but I think that in these 
times a sudden blow and hasty fate the only judgment for 
a traitor. The miscreant were too richly honored, that by 
thy royal hand he fell.” 

“ My son, my son, I pray thee peace,” urged the abbot, 
in accents of calm, yet grave authority. “ As minister of 
Heaven, I may not list such words. Bend not thy brow in 
wrath, clad as thou art in mail, in youthful might; yet in 
my Maker’s cause this withered frame is stronger yet than 
thou art. Enough of that which hath been. Thy sover- 
eign spoke in lowly penitence to me — to me, who frail and 
lowly unto thee, am yet the minister of Him whom sin 
offends. To thee he stands a warrior and a king, who 
rude irreverence may brook not, even from his brother. Be 
peace between us, then, my son; an old man’s blessing on 
thy fierce yet knightly spirit rest.” 

With a muttered oath Sir Edward had strode away at 
the abbot’s first words, but the cloud passed from his brow 
as he concluded, and slightly, yet with something of rever- 
ence, he bowed his head. 

“ And whither didst thou wend thy way, my fiery broth- 
er ? ” demanded Robert. “ Bringest thou aught of news, or 
didst thou and Douglas but set foot in stirrup and hand 
on rein simply from weariness of quiet ? ” 

“ In sober truth, ’twas even so ; partly to mark the 
movements of the English, an they make a movement, 
which, till Pembroke come, they are all too much amazed to 
do; partly to see if in truth that poltroon Duncan of Fife 
yet hangs back and still persists in forswearing the loyalty 
of his ancestors, and leaving to better hands the proud task 
of placing the crown of Scotland on thy head.” 

“ And thou art convinced at last that such and such 
only is his intention ? ” The knight nodded assent, and 
Bruce continued, jestingly, “ And so thou mightest have 
been long ago, my sage brother, hadst thou listened to me. 


30 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


I tell thee Earl Duncan hath a spite against me, not for 
daring to raise the standard of freedom and proclaim 
myself a king, but for very hatred of myself. Nay, hast 
thou not seen it thyself, when, fellow-soldiers, fellow-seek- 
ers of the banquet, tourney, or ball, he hath avoided, 
shunned me ? and why should he seek me now ? ” 

“ Why ? does not Scotland call him, Scotland bid 
him gird his sword and don his mail? Will not the dim 
spectres of his loyal line start from their very tombs 
to call him to thy side, or brand him traitor and poltroon, 
with naught of Duff about him but the name? Thou 
smilest.” 

“ At thy violence, good brother. Duncan of Fife loves 
better the silken cords of peace and pleasure, e’en though 
those silken threads hide chains, than the trumpet’s voice 
and weight of mail. In England bred, courted, flattered by 
her king, ’twere much too sore a trouble to excite his anger 
and lose his favor; and for whom, for what? — to crown the 
man he hateth from his soul ? ” 

“ And knowest thou wherefore, good my son, in what 
thou hast offended ? ” 

“ Offended, holy father? Nay, in naught unless per- 
chance a service rendered when a boy — a simple service, 
merely that of saving life — hath rendered him the touchy 
fool he is. But hark ! who comes ? ” 

The tramping of many horses, mingled with the eager 
voices of men, resounded from the court-yard as he spoke, 
and Sir Edward strode hastily to the casement. “ Sir 
Robert Keith returned!” he exclaimed, joyfully; a and 
seemingly right well attended. Litters too — bah! we want 
no more women. ’Tis somewhat new for Keith to be a 
squire of dames. Why, what banner is this? The black 
bear of Buchan — impossible! the earl is a foul Comyn. 
I’ll to the court, for this passes my poor wits.” He turned 
hastily to quit the chamber, as a youth entered, not with- 
out some opposition, it appeared, from the attendants 
without, but eagerly he had burst through them, and flung 
his plumed helmet from his beautiful brow, and, after 
glancing hastily round the room, bounded to the side of 
Robert, knelt at his feet, and clasped his knees without 
uttering a syllable, voiceless from an emotion whose index 
was stamped upon his glowing features. 

“ Nigel, by all that’s marvellous, and as moon-stricken 
as his wont! Why, where the foul flend hast thou sprung 
from ? Art dumb, thou foolish boy ? By St. Andrew, these 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


31 


are times to act and speak, not think and feel! Whence 
comest thou ? ” 

So spoke the impatient Edward, to whom the character 
of his youngest brother had ever been a riddle, which it had 
been too much trouble to expound, and that which it 
seemed to his too careless thought he ever looked upon with 
scorn and contempt. Not so, King Kobert; he raised him 
affectionately in his arms, and pressed him to his heart. 

“ Thou’rt welcome, most, most welcome, Nigel; as wel- 
come as unlooked for. But why this quick return from 
scenes and studies more congenial to thy gentle nature, my 
young brother? this fettered land is scarce a home for 
thee ; thy free, thy fond imaginings can scarce have resting 
here.” He spoke sadly, and his smile unwittingly was sor- 
rowful. 

“ And thinkest thou, Robert — nay, forgive me, good my 
liege — thinkest thou, because I loved the poet’s dream, be- 
cause I turned, in sad and lonely musing, from King Ed- 
ward’s court, I loved the cloister better than the camp? 
Oh, do me not such wrong ! thou knowest not the guidings 
of my heart ; nor needs it now, my sword shall better plead 
my cause than can my tongue.” He turned away deeply 
and evidently pained, and a half laugh from Sir Edward 
prevented the king’s reply. 

“ Well crowed, my pretty fledgling,” he said, half jest- 
ing, half in scorn. “ But knowest thou, to fight in very 
earnest is something different than to read and chant it 
in a minstrel’s lay? Better hie thee back to Florence, 
boy; the mail suit and crested helm are not for such as 
thee — better shun them now, than after they are donned.” 

“ How ! darest thou, Edward ? Edward, tempt me not 
too far,” exclaimed Nigel, his cheek flushing, and springing 
toward him, his hand upon his half-drawn sword. “ By 
Heaven, wert thou not my mother’s son, I would compel 
thee to retract these words, injurious, unjust! How darest 
thou judge me coward, till my cowardice is proved? Thy 
blood is not more red than mine.” 

“ Peace, peace ! what meaneth this unseemly broil ? ” 
said Robert, hastily advancing between them, for the dark 
features of Edward were lowering in wrath, and Nigel was 
excited to unwonted fierceness. “ Edward, begone ! and as 
thou saidst, see to Sir Robert Keith — what news he brings. 
Nigel, on thy love, thy allegiance so lately proffered, if I 
read thy greeting right, I pray thee heed not his taunting 
words. I do not doubt thee; ’twas for thy happiness, not 


32 


THE DAYS OF BKUCE. 


for thy gallantry, I trembled. Look not thus dejected;” 
he held out his hand, which his brother knelt to salute. 
“ Nay, nay, thou foolish boy, forget my new dignity a 
while, and now that rude brawler has departed, tell me in 
sober wisdom, how earnest thou here? How didst thou 
know I might have need of thee ? ” A quick blush suffused 
the cheek of the young man; he hesitated, evidently con- 
fused. “Why, what ails thee, boy? By St. Andrew, Ni- 
gel, I do believe thou hast never quitted Scotland.” 

“ And if I have not, my lord, what wilt thou deem me ? ” 
“ A very strangely wayward boy, not knowing his own 
mind,” replied the king, smiling. “ Yet why should I say 
so? I never asked thy confidence, never sought it, or in 
any way returned or appreciated thy boyish love, and why 
should I deem thee wuyward, never inquiring into thy 
projects — passing thee by, perchance, as a wild visionary, 
much happier than myself ? ” 

“ And thou wilt think me yet more a visionary, I fear 
me, Robert; yet thine interest is too dear to pass unan- 
swered,” rejoined Nigel, after glancing round and perceiv- 
ing they were alone, for the abbot had departed with Sir 
Edward, seeking to tame his reckless spirit. 

“ Know, then, to aid me in keeping aloof from the tyrant 
of my country, whom instinctively I hated, I confined my- 
self to books and such lore yet more than my natural in- 
clination prompted, though that w T as strong enough — I had 
made a solemn vow, rather to take the monk’s cowl and 
frock, than receive knighthood from the hand of Edward 
of England, or raise my sword at his bidding. My whole 
soul yearned toward the country of my fathers, that coun- 
try which was theirs by royal right; and when the renown 
of Wallace reached my ears, when, in my waking and sleep- 
ing dreams, I beheld the patriot struggling for freedom, 
peace, the only one whose arm had struck for Scotland, 
whose tongue had dared to speak resistance, I longed wild- 
ly, intensely, vainly, to burst the thraldom which held my 
race, and seek for death beneath the patriot banner. I 
longed, yet dared not. My own death were welcome; but 
mother, father, brothers, sisters, all were perilled, had I 
done so. I stood, I deemed, alone in my enthusiast 
dreams ; those I loved best, acknowledged, bowed before the 
man my very spirit loathed; and how dared I, a boy, a 
child, stand forth arraigning and condemning? But where- 
fore art thou thus, Robert ? oh, what has thus moved thee ? ” 
Wrapped in his own earnest words and thoughts, Nigel 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


33 


had failed until that moment to perceive the effect of his 
words upon his brother. Robert’s head had sunk upon his 
hand, and his whole frame shook beneath some strong emo- 
tion ; evidently striving to subdue it, some moments elapsed 
ere he could reply, and then only in accents of bitter self- 
reproach. “ Why, why did not such thoughts come to me, 
instead of thee?” he said. “My youth had not wasted 
then in idle folly — worse, oh, worse — in slavish homage, 
coward indecision, flitting like the moth around the de- 
structive flame ; and while I deemed thee buried in roman- 
tic dreams, all a patriot’s blood was rushing in thy veins, 
while mine was dull and stagnant.” 

“ But to flow forth the brighter, my own brother,” inter- 
rupted Nigel, earnestly. “ Oh, I have watched thee, 
studied thee, even as I loved thee, long; and I have hoped, 
felt, known that this day would dawn; that thou wouldst 
rise for Scotland, and she would rise for thee. Ah, now 
thou smilest as thyself, and I will to my tale. The patriot 
died — let me not utter how; no Scottish tongue should 
speak those words, save with the upraised arm and trumpet 
shout of vengeance ! I could not rest in England then ; I 
could not face the tyrant who dared proclaim and execute 
as traitor the noblest hero, purest patriot, that ever walked 
this earth. But men said I sought the lyric schools, the 
poet’s haunts in Provence, and I welcomed the delusion; 
but it was to Scotland that I came, unknown, and silently, 
to mark if with her Wallace all life and soul had fled. I 
saw enough to know that were there but a fitting head, her 
hardy sons would struggle yet for freedom — but not yet; 
that chief art thou, and at the close of the last year I took 
passage to Denmark, intending to rest there till Scotland 
called me.” 

“And ’tis thence thou comest, Nigel? Can it be, intel- 
ligence of my movements hath reached so far north al- 
ready ? ” inquired the king, somewhat surprised at the ab- 
ruptness of his brother’s pause. 

“ Not so, my liege. The vessel which bore me was 
wrecked off the breakers of Buchan, and cast me back again 
to the arms of Scotland. I found hospitality, shelter, kind- 
ness; nay more, were this a time and place to speak of 
happy, trusting love — ” he added, turning away from the 
Bruce’s penetrating eye, “ and week after week passed, and 
found me still an inmate of the Tower of Buchan.” 

“ Buchan ! ” interrupted the king, hastily ; “ the castle 
of a Comyn, and thou speakest of love ! ” 


34 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


“ Of as true, as firm-hearted a Scottish patriot, my 
liege, as ever lived in the heart of woman — one that has 
naught of Comyn about her or her fair children but the 
name, as speedily thou wilt have proof. But in good time 
is my tale come to a close, for hither comes good Sir Rob- 
ert, and other noble knights, who, by their eager brows, 
methinks, have matters of graver import for thy grace’s 
ear.” 

They entered as he spoke. The patriot nobles who, at 
the first call of their rightful king, had gathered round his 
person, few in number, yet firm in heart, ready to lay down 
fame, fortune, life, beside his standard, rather than ac- 
knowledge the foreign foe, who, setting aside all principles 
of knightly honor, knightly faith, sought to claim their 
country as his own, their persons as his slaves. Eager was 
the greeting of each and all to the youthful Nigel, min- 
gled with some surprise. Their conference with the king 
was but brief, and as it comprised matters more of specula- 
tion than of decided import, we will pass on to a later 
period of the same evening. 


CHAPTER IV. 

“Buchan! the Countess of Buchan, sayest thou, Athel- 
bert ? nay, ’tis scarce possible,” said a fair and noble-looking 
woman, still in the bloom of life, though early youth had 
passed, pausing on her way to the queen’s apartment, to 
answer some information given by the senior page. 

“Indeed, madam, ’tis even so; she arrived but now, 
escorted by Sir Robert Keith and his followers, in addition 
to some fifty of the retainers of Buchan.” 

“ And hath she lodging within the palace ? ” 

“Yes, madam; an it please you, I will conduct you to 
her; ’tis but a step beyond the royal suite.” 

She made him a sign of assent, and followed him slowly, 
as if musingly. 

“ It is strange, it is very strange,” she thought, “ yet 
scarcely so; she was ever in heart and soul a patriot, nor 
has she seen enough of her husband to change such senti- 
ments. Yet, for her own sake, perchance it had been better 
had she not taken this rash step; ’tis a desperate game we 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


35 


play, and the fewer lives and fortunes wrecked the bet- 
ter.” 

Her cogitations were interrupted by hearing her name 
announced in a loud voice by the page, and finding herself 
in presence of the object of her thoughts. 

“ Isabella, dearest Isabella, ’tis even thine own dear 
self. I deemed the boy’s tale well-nigh impossible,” was 
her hasty exclamation, as with a much quicker step she ad- 
vanced toward the countess, who met her half-way, and 
warmly returned her embrace, saying as she did so : 

“ This is kind, indeed, dearest Mary, to welcome me so 
soon ; ’tis long, long years since w r e have met ; but they have 
left as faint a shadow on thy affections as on mine.” 

“ Indeed, thou judgest me truly, Isabella. Sorrow, me- 
thinks, doth but soften the heart and render the memory 
of young affections, youthful pleasures, the more vivid, the 
more lasting: we think of what we have been, or what we 
are, and the contrast heightens into perfect bliss that which 
at the time, perchance, we deemed but perishable joy.” 

66 Hast thou too learnt such lesson, Mary ? I hoped its 
lore was all unknown to thee.” 

“ It was, indeed, deferred so long, so blessedly, I dared 
to picture perfect happiness on earth; but since my hus- 
band’s hateful captivity, Isabella, there can be little for 
his wife but anxiety and dread. But these — are these 
thine ? ” she added, gazing admiringly and tearfully on 
Agnes and Alan, who had at their mother’s sign advanced 
from the embrasure, where they had held low yet earnest 
converse, and gracefully acknowledged the stranger’s no- 
tice. “ Oh, wherefore bring them here, my friend ? ” 

“ Wherefore, lady ? ” readily and impetuously answered 
Alan ; “ art thou a friend of Isabella of Buchan, and asketh 
wherefore? Where our sovereign is, should not his sub- 
jects be ? ” 

“ Thy mother’s friend and sovereign’s sister, noble boy, 
and yet I grieve to see thee here. The Bruce is but in 
name a king, uncrowned as yet and unanointed. His king- 
dom bounded by the confines of this one fair county, strug- 
gling for every acre at the bright sword’s point.” 

“ The greater glory for his subjects, lady,” answered the 
youth. “ The very act of proclaiming himself king re- 
moves the chains of Scotland, and flings down her gage. 
Fear not, he shall be king ere long in something more than 
name.” 

“ And is it thus a Comyn speaks? ” said the Lady Camp- 


36 


THE DAYS OF BKUCE. 


bell. “ Ah, were the idle feuds of petty minds thus laid at 
rest, bold boy, thy dreams might e’en be truth ; but knowest 
thou, young man — knowest thou, Isabella, the breach be- 
tween the Comyn and the Bruce is widened, and, alas! by 
blood?” 

“ Aye, lady ; but what boots it ? A traitor should have 
no name, no kin, or those who bear that name should wash 
away their race’s stain by nobler deeds of loyalty and 
valor.” 

“ It would be well did others think with thee,” replied 
Lady Campbell; “yet I fear me in such sentiments the 
grandson of the loyal Fife will stand alone. Isabella, dear- 
est Isabella,” she added, laying her hand on the arm of the 
countess, and drawing her away from her children, “ hast 
thou done well in this decision? hast thou listened to the 
calmer voice of prudence as was thy wont? hast thou 
thought on all the evils thou mayest draw upon thy head, 
and upon these, so lovely and so dear ? ” 

“ Mary, I have thought, weighed, pondered, and yet I 
am here,” answered the countess, firmly, yet in an accent 
that still bespoke some inward struggle. “ I know, I feel 
all, all that thou wouldst urge; that I am exposing my 
brave boy to death, perchance, by a father’s hand, bringing 
him here to swear fealty, to raise his sword for the Bruce, 
in direct opposition to my husband’s politics, still more to 
his will; yet, Mary, there are mutual duties between a 
parent and a child. My poor boy has ever from his birth 
been fatherless. No kindly word, no glowing smile has 
ever met his infancy, his boyhood. He scarce can know his 
father — the love, the reverence of a son it would have been 
such joy to teach. Left to my sole care, could I instil 
sentiments other than those a father’s lips bestowed on 
me? Could I instruct him in aught save love, devotion to 
his country, to her rights, her king? I have done this so 
gradually, my friend, that for the burst of loyalty, of im- 
petuous gallantry, which answered Sir Robert Keith’s ap- 
peal, I was well-nigh unprepared. My father, my noble 
father, breathes in my boy ; and oh, Mary, better, better far 
lose him on the battle-field, struggling for Scotland’s free- 
dom, glorying in his fate, rejoicing, blessing me for les- 
sons I have taught, than see him as my husband, as my 
brother — alas! alas! that I should live to say it — cringing 
as slaves before the footstool of a tyrant and oppressor. 
Had he sought it, had he loved — treated me as a wife, Mary, 
I would have given my husband all — all a woman’s duty — 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


37 


all, save the dictates of my soul, but even this he trampled 
on, despised, rejected; and shall I, dare I then forget, op- 
pose the precepts of that noble heart, that patriot spirit 
which breathed into mine the faint reflection of itself? — 
offend the dead, the hallowed dead, my father — the heart 
that loved me ? ” 

She paused, in strong, and for the moment overpower- 
ing emotion. The clear, rich tones had never faltered till 
she spoke of him beloved even in death — faltered not, even 
when she spoke of death as the portion of her child ; it was 
but the quivering of lip and eye by which the anguish of 
that thought could have been ascertained. Lady Campbell 
clasped her hand. 

“ Thou hast in very truth silenced me, my Isabella,” she 
said ; “ there is no combating with thoughts as these. 
Thine is still the same noble soul, exalted mind that I knew 
in youth: sorrow and time have had no power on these.” 

“ Save to chasten and to purify, I trust,” rejoined the 
countess, in her own calm tone. “ Thrown back upon my 
own strength, it must have gathered force, dear Mary, or 
have perished altogether. But thou speakest, methinks, 
but too despondingly of our sovereign’s prospects — are they 
indeed so desperate ? ” 

“ Desperate, indeed, Isabella. Even his own family, 
with the sole exception of that rash madman, Edward, must 
look upon it thus. How thinkest thou Edward of England 
will brook this daring act of defiance, of what he will deem 
rank apostasy and traitorous rebellion ? Aged, infirm as he 
is now, he will not permit this bold attempt to pass un- 
punished. The whole strength of England will be gathered 
together, and pour its devastating fury on this devoted 
land. And what to this has Robert to oppose? Were he 
undisputed sovereign of Scotland, we might, without cow- 
ardice, be permitted to tremble, threatened as he is; but 
confined, surrounded by English, with scarce a town or 
fort to call his own, his enterprise is madness, Isabella, 
patriotic as it may be.” 

“ Oh, do not say so, Mary. Has he not some noble 
barons already by his side? will not, nay, is not Scotland 
rising to support him? hath he not the hearts, the prayers, 
the swords of all whose mountain homes and freeborn 
rights are dearer than the yoke of Edward? and hath he 
not, if rumor speak aright, within himself a host — not mere 
valor alone, but prudence, foresight, military skill — all, all 
that marks a general ? ” 


38 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


“ As rumor speaks. Thou dost not know him then ? ” 
inquired Lady Campbell. 

“ How could I, dearest ? Hast thou forgotten thy anx- 
iety that we should meet, when we were last together, hold- 
ing at naught, in thy merry mood, my betrothment to Lord 
John — that I should turn him from his wandering ways, 
and make him patriotic as myself ? Thou seest, Mary, thy 
brother needed not such influence.” 

“ Of a truth, no,” answered her friend ; “ for his pres- 
ent partner is a very contrast to thyself, and would rather, 
by her weak and trembling fears, dissuade him from his 
purpose than inspire and encourage it. Well do I remem- 
ber that fancy of my happy childhood, and still I wish it 
had been so, all idle as it seems — strange that ye never 
met.” 

“ Nay, save thyself, Mary, thy family resided more in 
England than in Scotland, and for the last seventeen years 
the territory of Buchan has been my only home, with little 
interruption to my solitude ; yet I have heard much of late 
of the Earl of Carrick, and from whom thinkest thou? — 
thou canst not guess — even from thy noble brother Nigel.” 

“ Nigel! ” repeated Lady Mary, much surprised. 

“ Even so, sweet sister, learning dearer lore and lovelier 
tales than even Provence could instil; ’tis not the land, it 
is the heart where poesy dwells,” rejoined Nigel Bruce, 
gayly, advancing from the side of Agnes, where he had been 
lingering the greater part of the dialogue between his sister 
and the countess, and now joined them. “ Aye, Mary,” he 
continued, tenderly, “ my own land is dearer than the land 
of song.” 

“ And dear art thou to Scotland, Nigel ; but I knew not 
thy fond dreams and wild visions could find resting amid 
the desert crags and barren plains of Buchan.” 

“ Yet have we not been idle. Dearest Agnes, wilt thou 
not speak for me? the viol hath not been mute, nor the 
fond harp unstrung; and deeper, dearer lessons have thy 
lips instilled, than could have flowed from fairest lips and 
sweetest songs of Provence. Nay, blush not, dearest. 
Mary, thou must love this gentle girl,” he added, as he led 
her forward, and laid the hand of Agnes in his sister’s. 

“ Is it so ? then may we indeed be united, though not as 
I in my girlhood dreamed, my Isabella,” said Lady Camp- 
bell, kindly parting the clustering curls, and looking fondly 
on the maiden’s blushing face. She was about to speak 
again, when steps were heard along the corridor, and unan- 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


39 


nounced, unattended, save by the single page who drew 
aside the hangings, King Robert entered. He had doffed 
the armor in which we saw him first, for a plain yet rich 
suit of dark-green velvet, cut and slashed with cloth of 
gold, and a long mantle of the richest crimson, secured at 
his throat by a massive golden clasp, from which gleamed 
the glistening rays of a large emerald ; a brooch of precious 
stones, surrounded by diamonds, clasped the white ostrich 
feather in his cap, and the shade of the drooping plume, 
heightened perhaps by the advance of evening, somewhat 
obscured his features, but there was that in his majestic 
mien, in the noble yet dignified bearing, which could not 
for one moment be mistaken; and it needed not the word 
of Nigel to cause the youthful Alan to spring from the 
couch where he had listlessly thrown himself, and stand, 
suddenly silenced and abashed. 

“ My liege and brother,” exclaimed Lady Campbell, 
eagerly, as she hastily led forward the Countess of Buchan, 
who sunk at once on her knee, overpowered by the emotion 
of a patriot, thinking only of her country, only of her sov- 
ereign, as one inspired by Heaven to attempt her rescue, 
and give her freedom. “ How glad am I that it has fallen 
on me to present to your grace, in the noble Countess of 
Buchan, the chosen friend of my girlhood, the only de- 
scendant of the line of Macduff worthy to bear that name. 
Allied as unhappily she is to the family of Comyn, yet still, 
still most truly, gloriously, a patriot and loyal subject of 
your grace, as her being here, with all she holds most dear, 
most precious upon earth, will prove far better than her 
friend’s poor words.” 

“ Were they most rich in eloquence, Mary, believe me, 
we yet should need them not, in confirmation of this most 
noble lady’s faithfulness and worth,” answered the king, 
with ready courtesy, and in accents that were only too fa- 
miliar to the ear of Isabella. She started, and gazed up for 
the first time, seeing fully the countenance of the sover- 
eign. “ Rise, lady, we do beseech you, rise ; we are not yet 
so familiar with the forms of royalty as to behold without 
some shame a noble lady at our feet. Nay, thou art pale, 
very pale; thy coming hither hath been too rapid, too hur- 
ried for thy strength, methinks; I do beseech you, sit.” 
Gently he raised her, and leading her gallantly to one of 
the cumbrous couches near them, placed her upon it, and 
sat down beside her. “Ha! that is well; thou art better 
now. Knowest thou, Mary, thine office would have been 


40 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


more wisely performed, hadst thou presented me to the 
Countess of Buchan, not her to me.” 

“ Thou speakest darkly, good my liege, yet I joy to see 
thee thus jestingly inclined.” 

“Nay, ’tis no jest, fair sister; the Countess of Buchan 
and I have met before, though she knew me but as a wild, 
heedless stripling first, and a moody, discontented soldier 
afterward. I owe thee much, gentle lady; much for the 
night’s lodging thy hospitality bestowed, though at the 
time my mood was such it had no words of courtesy, no 
softening fancy, even to thyself; much for the kindness 
thou didst bestow, not only then, but when fate first threw 
us together; and therefore do I seek thee, lady — therefore 
would I speak to thee, as the friend of former years, not 
as the sovereign of Scotland, and as such received by thee.” 
He spoke gravely, with somewhat of sadness in his rich 
voice. Perhaps it was well for the countess no other an- 
swer than a grateful bow was needed, for the sudden faint- 
ness which had withdrawn the color from her cheek yet 
lingered, sufficient to render the exertion of speaking 
painful. 

“ Yet pause one moment, my liege,” said Nigel, play- 
fully leading Alan forward ; “give me one moment, ere you 
fling aside your kingly state. Here is a young soldier, 
longing to rush into the very thickest of a fight that may 
win a golden spur and receive knighthood at your grace’s 
hand; a doughty spokesman, who was to say a marvellously 
long speech of duty, homage, and such like, but whose 
tongue at sight of thee has turned traitor to its cause" Have 
mercy on him, good my liege; I’ll answer that his arm is 
less a traitor than his tongue.” 

“We do not doubt it, Nigel, and will accept thy words 
for his. Be satisfied, young sir, the willing homage of all 
true men is precious to King Robert. And thou, fair 
maiden, wilt thou, too, follow thy monarch’s fortunes, 
cloudy though they seem? we read thine answer in thy 
blushing cheek, and thus we thank thee, maiden.” 

He threw aside his plumed cap, and gallantly yet re- 
spectfully saluted the fair, soft cheek ; confused yet 
pleased, Agnes, looked doubtingly toward Nigel, who, smil- 
ing a happy, trusting, joyous smile, led her a few minutes 
apart, whispered some fond words, raised her hand to his 
lips, and summoning Alan, they left the room together. 

“ Sir Robert Keith informs me, noble lady,” said the 
king, again addressing Isabella, “ that it is your determina- 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


41 


tion to represent, in your own proper person, the ancient 
line of Duff at the approaching ceremony, and demand 
from our hands, as such representative, the privilege 
granted by King Malcolm to your noble ancestor and his 
descendants, of placing on the sovereign’s brow the coronet 
of Scotland. Is it not so ? ” 

“ I do indeed most earnestly demand this privilege, my 
gracious liege,” answered the countess, firmly ; “ demand it 
as a right, a glorious right, made mine by the weak and 
fickle conduct of my brother. Alas ! the only male de- 
scendant of that line which until now hath never known a 
traitor.” 

“ But hast thou well considered, lady ? There is danger 
in this act, danger even to thyself.” 

“ My liege, that there is danger threatening all the 
patriots of Scotland, monarch or serf, male or female, I 
well know; yet in what does it threaten me more in this 
act, than in the mere acknowledgment of the Earl of Car- 
rick as my sovereign ? ” 

“ It will excite the rage of Edward of England against 
thyself individually, lady; I know him well, only too well. 
All who join in giving countenance and aid to my inaugura- 
tion will be proclaimed, hunted, placed under the ban of 
traitors, and, if unfortunately taken, will in all probability 
share the fate of Wallace.” His voice became husky with 
strong emotion. “ There is no exception in his sweeping 
tyranny; youth and age, noble and serf, of either sex, of 
either land, if they raise the sword for Bruce and freedom, 
will fall by the hangman’s cord or headsman’s axe; and I, 
alas! must look on and bear, for I have neither men nor 
power to avert such fate; and that hand which places on 
my head the crown, death, death, a cruel death, will be the 
doom of its patriot owner. Think, think on this, and oh, 
retract thy noble resolution, ere it be too late.” 

“ Is she who gives the crown in greater danger, good 
my liege, than he who wears it ? ” demanded the countess, 
with a calm and quiet smile. 

“ Kay,” he answered, smiling likewise for the moment, 
“ but I were worse than traitor, did I shrink from Scotland 
in her need, and refuse her diadem, in fear, forsooth, of 
death at Edward’s hands. No! I have held back too long, 
and now will I not turn back till Scotland’s freedom is 
achieved, or Robert Bruce lies with the slain. Repentance 
for the past, hope, ambition for the future; a firm heart 
and iron frame, a steady arm and sober mood, to meet the 


42 


THE DAYS OF BKUCE. 


present — I have these, sweet lady, to fit and nerve me for 
the task, but not such hast thou. I doubt not thy patriot 
soul; perchance ’twas thy lip that first awoke the slumber- 
ing fire within my own breast, and though a while forgot- 
ten, recalled, when again I looked on thee, after Falkirk’s 
fatal battle, with the charge, the solemn charge of Wal- 
lace yet ringing in mine ears. Yet, lady, noble lady, tempt 
not the fearful fate which, shouldst thou fall into Edward’s 
hands, I know too well will be thine own. I dare not prom- 
ise sure defence from his o’erwhelming hosts : on every side 
they compass me. I see sorrow and death for all I love, all 
who swear fealty to me. I shall succeed in the end, for 
Heaven, just Heaven will favor the righteous cause; but 
trouble and anguish must be my lot ere then, and I would 
save those I can. Remain with us an thou wilt, gratefully 
I accept the homage so nobly and unhesitatingly tendered ; 
but still I beseech thee, lady, expose not thy noble self to 
the blind wrath of Edward, as thou surely wilt, if from thy 
hand I receive my country’s crown.” 

“ My liege,” answered the countess, in that same calm, 
quiet tone, “ I have heard thee with a deep grateful sense 
of the noble feeling, the kindly care which dictates thy 
words ; yet pardon me, if they fail to shake my resolution — 
a resolution not lightly formed, not the mere excitement of 
a patriotic moment, but one based on the principles of 
years, on the firm, solemn conviction, that in taking this 
sacred office on myself, the voice of the dead is obeyed, the 
memory of the dead, the noble dead, preserved from stain, 
inviolate and pure. Would my father have kept aloof in 
such an hour — refused to place on the brow of Scotland’s 
patriot king the diadem of his forefathers — held back in 
fear of Edward ? Oh ! would that his iron hand and loyal 
heart were here instead of mine; gladly would I lay me 
down in his cold home and place him at thy side, might 
such things be; but as it is, my liege, I do beseech thee, 
cease to urge me. I have but a woman’s frame, a woman’s 
heart, and yet death hath no fear for me. Let Edward 
work his will, if Heaven ordain I fall into his ruthless 
hands; death comes but once, ’tis but a momentary pang, 
and rest and bliss shall follow. My father’s spirit breathes 
within me, and as he would, so let his daughter do. ’Tis 
not now a time to depart from ancient forms, my gracious 
sovereign, and there are those in Scotland who scarce would 
deem thee crowned, did not the blood of Fife perform that 
holy office.” 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


43 


“ And this, then, noble lady, is thy firm resolve — I may 
not hope to change it ? ” 

“ ’Tis firm as the ocean rock, my liege. I do not sue 
thee to permit my will ; the blood of Macduff, which rushes 
in my veins, doth mark it as my right, and as my right I 
do demand it.” She stood in her majestic beauty, proudly 
and firmly before him, and unconsciously the king acknowl- 
edged and revered the dauntless spirit that lovely form en- 
shrined. 

“ Lady,” he said, raising her hand with reverence to his 
lips, “do as thou wilt: a weaker spirit would have shrunk 
at once in terror from the very thought of such open de- 
fiance to King Edward. I should have known the mind 
that framed such daring purpose would never shrink from 
its fulfilment, however danger threatened; enough, we 
know thy faithfulness and worth, and where to seek for 
brave and noble counsel in the hour of need. And now, 
may it be our privilege to present thee to our queen, sweet 
lady? We shall rejoice to see thee ever near her person.” 

“ I pray your grace excuse me for this night,” answered 
the countess; “we have made some length of way to-day, 
and, if it please you, I would seek rest. Agnes shall supply 
my place ; Mary, thou wilt guard her, wilt thou not ? ” 

“ Kay, be mine the grateful task,” said the king, gayly 
taking the maiden’s hand, and, after a few words of cour- 
tesy, he quitted the chamber, followed by his sister. 

There were sounds of mirth and revelry that night in 
the ancient halls of Scone, for King Robert, having taken 
upon himself the state and consequence of sovereignty, de- 
termined on encouraging the high spirits and excited joy- 
ousness of his gallant followers by all the amusements of 
chivalry which his confined and precarious situation per- 
mitted, and seldom was it that the dance and minstrelsy 
did not echo blithely in the royal suite for many hours of 
the evening, even when the day had brought with it anx- 
iety and fatigue, and even intervals of despondency. There 
were many noble dames and some few youthful maidens in 
King Robert’s court, animated by the same patriotic spirit 
which led their husbands and brothers to risk fortune and 
life in the service of their country: they preferred sharing 
and alleviating their dangers and anxieties, by thronging 
round the Bruce’s wife, to the precarious calm and safety 
of their feudal castles ; and light-heartedness and glee shed 
their bright gleams on these social hours, never clouded by 
the gloomy shades that darkened the political horizon of 
4 


44 


THE BAYS OF BRUCE. 


the Bruce’s fortunes. Perchance this night there was a 
yet brighter radiance cast over the royal halls, there was 
a spirit of light and glory in every word and action of the 
youthful enthusiast, Nigel Bruce, that acted as with magic 
power on all around ; known in the court of England but as 
a moody visionary boy, whose dreams were all too ethereal 
to guide him in this nether world, whose hand, however 
fitted to guide a pen, was all too weak to wield a sword; 
the change, or we should rather say the apparent change, 
perceived in him occasioned many an eye to gaze in silent 
wonderment, and, in the superstition of the time, argue well 
for the fortunes of one brother from the marvellous effect 
observable in the countenance and mood of the other. 

The hopefulness of youth, its rosy visions, its smiling 
dreams, all sparkled in his bright blue eye, in the glad, free, 
ringing joyance of his deep rich voice, his cloudless smiles. 
And oh, who is there can resist the witchery of life’s young 
hopes, who does not feel the warm blood run quicker 
through his veins, and bid his heart throb even as it hath 
throbbed in former days, and the gray hues of life melt 
away before the rosy glow of youth, even as the calm cold 
aspect of waning night is lost in the warmth and loveliness 
of the infant morn? And what was the magic acting on 
the enthusiast himself, that all traces of gloom and pen- 
sive thought were banished from his brow, that the full 
tide of poetry within his soul seemed thrilling on his lip, 
breathing in his simplest word, entrancing his whole being 
in joy? Scarce could he himself have defined its cause, 
such a multitude of strong emotions were busy at his heart. 
He saw not the dangers overhanging the path of the Bruce, 
he only saw and only felt him as his sovereign, as his 
brother, his friend, destined to be all that he had hoped, 
prayed, and believed he would be; willing to accept and 
return the affection he had so long felt, and give him that 
friendship and confidence for which he had yearned in vain 
so long. He saw his country free, independent, un- 
shackled, glorious as of old; and there was a light and 
lovely being mingling in these stirring visions — when Scot- 
land was free, what happiness would not be his own ! 
Agnes, who flitted before him in that gay scene, the love- 
liest, dearest object there, clinging to him in her timidity, 
shrinking from the gaze of the warriors around, respectful 
as it was, feeling that all was strange, all save him to whom 
her young heart was vowed — if such exclusiveness was dear 
to him, if it were bliss to him to feel that, save her young 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


45 


brother, he alone had claim upon her notice and her smile, 
oh ! what would it be when she indeed was all, all indivisibly 
his own? Was it marvel, then, his soul was full of the joy 
that beamed forth from his eye, and lip, and brow — that his 
faintest tone breathed gladness? 

There was music and mirth in the royal halls : the shad- 
ow of care had passed before the full sunshine of hope ; but 
within that palace wall, not many roods removed from the 
royal suite, was one heart struggling with its lone agony, 
striving for calm, for peace, for rest, to escape from the 
deep waters threatening to overwhelm it. Hour after hour 
beheld the Countess of Buchan in the same spot, well-nigh 
in the same attitude : the agonized dream of her youth had 
come upon her yet once again, the voice whose musical 
echoes had never faded from her ear, once more had 
sounded in its own deep thrilling tones, his hand had 
pressed her own, his eye had met hers, aye, and dwelt upon 
her with the unfeigned reverence and admiration which 
had marked its expression years before; and it was to him 
her soul had yearned in all the fervidness of loyalty, not 
to a stranger, as she had deemed him. Loyalty, patriotism, 
reverence her sovereign claimed, aye, and had received ; but 
now how dare she encourage such emotions toward one it 
had been, aye, it was her duty to forget, to think of no 
more ? Had her husband been fond, sought the noble heart 
which felt so bitterly his neglect, the gulf which now 
divided them might never have existed ; and could she still 
the voice of that patriotism, that loyalty toward a free just 
monarch, which the dying words of a parent had so deeply 
inculcated, and which the sentiments of her own heart had 
increased in steadiness and strength? On what had that 
lone heart to rest, to subdue its tempest, to give it nerve 
and force, to rise pure in thought as in deed, unstained, 
unshaded in its nobleness, what but its own innate purity? 
Yet fearful was the storm that passed over, terrible the 
struggle which shook that bent form, as in lowliness and 
contrition, and agony of spirit, she knelt before the silver 
crucifix, and called upon heaven in its mercy to give peace 
and strength — fierce, fierce and terrible; but the agonized 
cry was heard, the stormy waves were stilled. 


46 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


CHAPTER V. 

Brightly and blithely dawned the 26th of March, 1306, 
for the loyal inhabitants of Scone. Few who might gaze 
on the olden city, and marked the flags and pennons waving 
gayly and proudly on every side; the rich tapestry flung 
over balconies or hung from the massive windows, in every 
street ; the large branches of oak and laurel, festooned with 
gay ribands, that stood beside the entrance of every house 
which boasted any consequence ; the busy citizens in goodly 
array, with their wives and families, bedecked to the best 
of their ability, all, as inspired by one spirit, hurrying in 
the direction of the abbey yard, joining the merry clamor 
of eager voices to the continued peal of every bell of which 
the old town could boast, sounding loud and joyously even 
above the roll of the drum or the shrill trumpet call; — 
those who marked these things might well believe Scotland 
was once again the same free land, which had hailed in the 
same town the coronation of Alexander the Third, some 
years before. Little would they deem that the foreign 
foeman still thronged her feudal holds and cottage homes, 
that they waited but the commands of their monarch, to 
pour down on all sides upon the daring individual who 
thus boldly assumed the state and solemn honor of a king, 
and, armed but by his own high heart and a handful of 
loyal followers, prepared to resist, defend, and free , or die 
for Scotland. 

There was silence — deep, solemn, yet most eloquent si- 
lence, reigning in the abbey church of Scone. The sun 
shining in that full flood of glory we sometimes find in the 
infant spring, illumined as with golden lustre the long, 
narrow casements, falling thence in flickering brilliance 
on the pavement floor, its rays sometimes arrested, to re- 
volve in heightened lustre from the glittering sword or the 
suit of half-mail of one or other of the noble knights assem- 
bled there. The rich plate of the abbey, all at least which 
had escaped the cupidity of Edward, was arranged with care 
upon the various altars; in the centre of the church was 
placed the abbot’s oaken throne, which was to supply the 
place of the ancient stone, the coronation seat of the Scot- 
tish kings — no longer there, its absence felt by one and 
all within that church as the closing seal to Edward’s in- 
famy — the damning proof that as his slave, not as his sister 
kingdom, he sought to render Scotland. From the throne 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


47 


to the high altar, where the king was to receive the eucha- 
rist, a carpet of richly-brocaded Genoa velvet was laid down ; 
a cushion of the same elegantly-wrought material marked 
the place beside the spot where he was to kneel. Priests, 
in their richest vestments, officiated at the high altar; six 
beautiful boys, bearing alternately a large waxen candle, 
and the golden censers filled with the richest incense, stood 
beside them, while opposite the altar and behind the throne, 
in an elevated gallery, were ranged the seventy choristers 
of the abbey, thirty of whom were youthful novices ; behind 
them a massive screen or curtain of tapestry concealed the 
organ, and gave a yet more startling and thrilling effect to 
its rich deep tones, thus bursting, as it were, from spheres 
unseen. 

The throne was already occupied by the patriot king, 
clothed in his robes of state; his inner dress was a doublet 
and vest of white velvet, slashed with cloth of silver; his 
stockings, fitting tight to the knee, were of the finest woven 
white silk, confined where they met the doublet with a 
broad band of silver; his shoes of white velvet, broidered 
with silver, in unison with his dress; a scarf of cloth of 
silver passed over his right shoulder, fastened there by a 
jewelled clasp, and, crossing his breast, secured his trusty 
sword to his left side ; his head, of course, was bare, and his 
fair hair, parted carefully on his arched and noble brow, 
descended gracefully on either side; his countenance was 
perfectly calm, unexpressive of aught save of a deep sense 
of the solemn service in which he was engaged. There 
was not the faintest trace of either anxiety or exultation — 
naught that could shadow the brows of his followers, or 
diminish by one particle the love and veneration which in 
every heart were rapidly gaining absolute dominion. 

On the right of the king stood the Abbot of Scone, the 
Archbishop of St. Andrew’s, and Bishop of Glasgow, all 
of which venerable prelates had instantaneously and un- 
hesitatingly declared for the Bruce; ranged on either side 
of the throne, according more to seniority than rank, were 
seated the brothers of the Bruce and the loyal barons who 
had joined his standard. Names there were already fa- 
mous in the annals of patriotism — Fraser, Lennox, Athol, 
Hay — whose stalwart arms had so nobly struck for Wallace, 
whose steady minds had risen superior to the petty emo- 
tions of jealousy and envy which had actuated so many of 
similar rank. These were true patriots, and gladly and 
freely they once more rose for Scotland. Sir Christopher 


48 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


Seaton, brother-in-law to the Bruce, Somerville, Keith, St. 
Clair, the young Lord Douglas, and Thomas Randolph, the 
king’s nephew, were the most noted of those now around 
the Bruce; yet on that eventful day not more than four- 
teen barons were mustered round their sovereign, exclusive 
of his four gallant brothers, who were in themselves a host. 
All these were attired with the care and gallantry their pre- 
carious situation permitted ; half armor, concealed by 
flowing scarfs and graceful mantles, or suites of gayer 
seeming among the younger knights, for those of the 
barons’ followers of gentle blood and chivalric training 
were also admitted within the church, forming a goodly 
show of gallant men. Behind them, on raised seats, which 
were divided from the body of the church by an open 
railing of ebony, sate the ladies of the court, the seat of 
the queen distinguished from the rest by its canopy and 
cushion of embroidered taffeta, and amongst those gentle 
beings fairest and loveliest shone the maiden of Buchan, 
as she sate in smiling happiness between the youthful 
daughter of the Bruce, the Princess Margory, and his 
niece, the Lady Isoline, children of ten and fourteen, who 
already claimed her as their companion and friend. 

The color was bright on the soft cheek of Agnes, the 
smile laughed alike in her lip and eye; for ever and anon, 
from amid the courtly crowd beneath, the deep blue orb 
of Nigel Bruce met hers, speaking in its passioned yet 
respectful gaze, all that could whisper joy and peace unto 
a heart, young, loving, and confiding, as that of Agnes. 
The evening previous he had detached the blue riband 
which confined her flowing curls, and it was with a feeling 
of pardonable pride she beheld it suspended from his neck, 
even in that hour, when his rich habiliments and the im- 
posing ceremony of the day marked him the brother of a 
king. Her brother, too, was at his side, gazing upon his 
sovereign with feelings, whose index, marked as it was on 
his brow, gave him the appearance of being older than 
he was. It was scarcely the excitement of a mere boy, who 
rejoiced in the state and dignity around him; the emotion 
of his mother had sunk upon his very soul, subduing the 
wild buoyancy of his spirit, and bidding him feel deeply 
and sadly the situation in which he stood. It seemed to 
him as if he had never thought before, and now that reflec- 
tion had come upon him, it was fraught with a weight 
and gloom he could not remove and scarcely comprehend. 
He felt no power on earth could prevent his taking the 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


49 


only path which was open to the true patriot of Scotland, 
and in following that path he raised the standard of revolt, 
and enlisted his own followers against his father. Till the 
moment of action he had dreamed not of these things; 
but the deep anxieties, the contending feelings of his 
mother, which, despite her controlled demeanor, his heart 
perceived, could not but have their effect and premature 
manhood was stealing fast upon his heart. 

Upon the left of the king, and close beside his throne, 
stood the Countess of Buchan, attired in robes of the dark- 
est crimson velvet, with a deep border of gold, which swept 
the ground, and long falling sleeves with a broad fringe; 
a thick cord of gold and tassels confined the robe around 
the waist, and thence fell reaching to her feet, and well- 
nigh concealing the inner dress of white silk, which was 
worn to permit the robes falling easily on either side, and 
thus forming a long train behind. Neither gem nor gold 
adorned her beautiful hair; a veil was twisted in its lux- 
uriant tresses, and served the purpose of the matron’s coif. 
She was pale and calm, but such was the usual expression 
of her countenance, and perhaps accorded better with the 
dignified majesty of her commanding figure than a greater 
play of feature. It was not the calmness of insensibility, 
of vacancy; it was the still reflection of a controlled and 
chastened soul, of one whose depth and might was known 
but to herself. 

The pealing anthem for a while had ceased, and it was 
as if that church was desolate, as if the very hearts that 
throbbed so quickly for their country and their king vrere 
hushed a while and stilled, that every word which passed 
between the sovereign and the primate should be heard. 
Kneeling before him, his hands placed between those of the 
archbishop, the king, in a clear and manly voice, received, 
as it were, the kingdom from his hands, and swore to gov- 
ern according to the laws of his ancestors; to defend the 
liberties of his people alike from the foreign and the civil 
foe; to dispense justice; to devote life itself to restoring 
Scotland to her former station in the scale of kingdoms. 
Solemnly, energetically, he took the required vows; his 
cheek flushed, his eye glistened, and ere he rose he bent his 
brow upon his spread hands, as if his spirit supplicated 
strength, and the primate, standing over him, blessed him, 
in a loud voice, in the name of Him whose lowly minister 
he was. 

A few minutes, and the king was again seated on his 


50 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


throne, and from the hands of the Bishop of Glasgow, the 
Countess of Buchan received the simple coronet of gold, 
which had been hastily made to supply the place of that 
which Edward had removed. It was a moment of intense 
interest: every eye was directed toward the king and the 
dauntless woman by his side, who, rather than the de- 
scendant of Malcolm Cean Mohr should demand in vain 
the service from the descendants of the brave Macduff, ex- 
posed herself to all the wrath of a fierce and cruel king, 
the fury of an incensed husband and brother, and in her 
own noble person represented that ancient and most loyal 
line. Were any other circumstance needed to enhance 
the excitement of the patriots of Scotland, they would 
have found it in this. As it was, a sudden, irrepressible 
burst of applause broke from the many eager voices as the 
bishop placed the coronet in her hands, but one glance 
from those dark, eloquent eyes sufficed to hush it on the 
instant into stillness. 

Simultaneously all within the church stood up, and 
gracefully and steadily with a hand that trembled not, even 
to the observant and anxious eyes of her son, Isabella of 
Buchan placed the sacred symbol of royalty on the head 
of Scotland’s king; and then rose, as with one voice, the 
wild enthusiastic shout of loyalty, which, bursting from 
all within the church, was echoed again and again from 
without, almost drowning the triumphant anthem which 
at the same moment sent its rich, hallowed tones through 
the building, and proclaimed Robert Bruce indeed a king. 

Again and yet again the voice of triumph and of loyalty 
arose hundred-tongued, and sent its echo even to the 
English camp; and when it ceased, when slowly, and as it 
were reluctantly, it died away, it was a grand and glorious 
sight to see those stern and noble barons one by one ap- 
proach their sovereign’s throne and do him homage. 

It was not always customary for the monarchs of those 
days to receive the feudal homage of their vassals the same 
hour of their coronation: it was in general a distinct and 
almost equally gorgeous ceremony; but in this case both 
the king and barons felt it better policy to unite them; 
the excitement attendant on the one ceremonial they felt 
would prevent the deficiency of numbers in the other being 
observed, and they acted wisely. 

There was a dauntless firmness in each baron’s look, in 
his manly carriage and unwavering step, as one by one he 
traversed the space between him and the throne, seeming 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


51 


to proclaim that in himself he held indeed a host. To ad- 
here to the usual custom of paying homage to the suzerain 
bareheaded, barefooted, and unarmed, the embroidered 
slipper had been adopted by all instead of the iron boot; 
and as he knelt before the throne, the Earl of Lennox, for, 
first in rank, he first approached his sovereign, unbuckling 
his trusty sword, laid it, together with his dagger, at 
Robert’s feet, and placing his clasped hands between those 
of the king, repeated, in a deep sonorous voice, the solemn 
vow — to live and die with him against all manner of men. 
Athol, Fraser, Seaton, Douglas, Hay, gladly and willingly 
followed his example; and it was curious to mark the 
character of each man, proclaimed in his mien and hurried 
step. 

The calm, controlled, and somewhat thoughtful manner 
of those grown wise in war, their bold spirits feeling to the 
inmost soul the whole extent of the risk they run, scarcely 
daring to anticipate the freedom of their country, the 
emancipation of their king from the heavy yoke that 
threatened him, and yet so firm in the oath they pledged, 
that had destruction yawned before them ere they reached 
the throne, they w T ould have dared it rather than turned 
back — and then again those hot and eager youths, feeling, 
knowing but the excitement of the hour, believing but as 
they hoped, seeing but a king, a free and independent king, 
bounding from their seats to the monarch's feet, regardless 
of the solemn ceremonial in which they took a part, desirous 
only, in the words of their oath, to live and die for him — 
caused a brighter flush to mantle on King Robert’s cheek, 
and his eyes to shine with new and radiant light. Hone 
knew better than himself the perils that encircled him, yet 
there was a momentary glow of exultation in his heart as 
he looked on the noble warriors, the faithful friends 
around him, and felt that they, even they, representatives 
of the oldest, the noblest houses in Scotland — men famed 
not alone for their gallant bearing in war, but their fidel- 
ity and wisdom, and unstained honor and virtue in peace 
— even they acknowledged him their king, and vowed him 
that allegiance which was never known to fail. 

Alan of Buchan was the last of the small yet noble 
train who approached his sovereign. There was a hot flush 
of impetuous feeling on the boy’s cheek, an indignant tear 
trembled in his dark flashing eye, and his voice, sweet, 
thrilling as it was, quivered with the vain effort to restrain 
his emotion. 


52 


THE DAYS OF BKUCE. 


“ Sovereign of Scotland,” he exclaimed, “ descendant 
of that glorious line of kings to whom my ancestors have 
until this dark day vowed homage and allegiance; sover- 
eign of all good and faithful men, on whose inmost souls 
the name of Scotland is so indelibly writ, that even in 
death it may there be found, refuse not thou my homage. 
I have but my sword, not e’en a name of which to boast, 
yet hear me swear,” he raised his clasped hands toward 
heaven, “ swear that for thee, for my country, for thee 
alone, will I draw it, alone shall my life be spent, my blood 
be shed. Reject me not because my name is Comyn, be- 
cause I alone am here of that once loyal house. Oh! con- 
demn me not; reject not untried a loyal heart and trusty 
sword.” 

“ Reject thee,” said King Robert, laying his hand kind- 
ly on the boy’s shoulder; “ reject thee, young soldier,” he 
said, cheeringly : “ in Alan of Buchan we see but the 
noble son of our right noble countrywoman, the Lady 
Isabella; we see in him but a worthy descendant of Mac- 
duff, the noble scion, though but by the mother’s side, of 
the loyal house of Fife. Young as thou art, we ask of 
thee but the heart and sword which thou hast so earnestly 
proffered, nor can we, son of Isabella of Fife, doubt their 
honesty and truth; thou shalt earn a loyal name for thy- 
self, and till then, as the brother in arms, the chosen friend 
of Nigel Bruce, all shall respect and trust thee. We confer 
knighthood on twenty of our youthful warriors seven days 
hence; prepare thyself to receive it with our brother: 
enough for us to know thou hast learned the art of chivalry 
at thy mother’s hand.” 

Dazzled, bewildered by the benign manner, and yet 
more gracious words of his sovereign, the young heir of 
Buchan remained kneeling for a brief space, as if rooted 
to the ground, but the deep earnest voice of his mother, the 
kind greeting of Nigel Bruce, as he grasped his arm, and 
hailed him companion in arms, roused him at once, and 
he sprung to his feet; the despondency, shame, doubt, anx- 
iety which like lead had weighed down his heart before, 
dissolved before the glad, buoyant spirit, the bright, free, 
glorious hopes, and dreams, and visions which are known 
to youth alone. 

Stentorian and simultaneous was the eager shout that 
hailed the appearance of the newly-anointed king, as he 
paused a moment on the great stone staircase, leading from 
the principal doors of the . abbey to the abbey yard. For 


THE DAYS OF BEUCE. 


53 


miles round, particularly from those counties which were 
but thinly garrisoned by the English, the loyal Scots had 
poured at the first rumor of the Bruce’s rising, and now a 
rejoicing multitude welcomed him with one voice, the exe- 
crations against their foes forgotten in this outpouring of 
the heart toward their native prince. 

Inspired by this heartfelt greeting, the king advanced a 
few paces on the stone terrace, and raised his right hand, 
as if about to speak; on the instant every shout was 
hushed, and silence fell upon that eager multitude, as deep 
and voiceless as if some mighty magic chained them spell- 
bound where they stood, their very breathing hushed, fear- 
ful to lose one word. 

Many an aged eye grew dim with tears, as it rested on 
the fair and graceful form, the beautifully expressive face 
of him, who, with eloquent fervor, referred to the ancient 
p-lory of their country; tears of joy, for they felt they 
looked upon the good genius of their land, that she was 
raised from her dejected stupor, to sleep a slave no more; 
and the middle-aged and the young, with deafening shouts 
and eager gestures, swore to give him the crown, the king- 
dom he demanded, free, unshackled as his ancestors had 
borne them, or die around him to a man; and blessings 
and prayers in woman’s gentler voice mingled with the 
swelling cry, and little children caught the Bruce’s name, 
and bade “ God bless him,” and others, equally impetuous, 
shouted “ Bruce and freedom ! ” 

“ Love, obey, follow me, for Scotland’s sake ; noble or 
gentle, let all private feud be forgotten in this one great 
struggle for liberty or death. Thus,” he concluded, 
“united and faithful, the name of Wallace on each lip, the 
weal of Scotland in each heart, her mountains our shield, 
her freedom our sword, shall we, can we fail? Ho! no! 
Scotland shall be free, or her green sod and mountain 
flowers shall bloom upon our graves. I have no crown save 
that which Scotland gives, no kingdom save what your 
swords shall conquer, and your hearts bestow; with you I 
live and die.” 

In the midst of the shouts and unrestrained clamor 
succeeding this eloquent address, the fiery charges of the 
king and his attendant barons and esquires were led to 
the foot of the staircase. And a fair and noble sight was 
the royal cortege as slowly it passed through the old town, 
with banners flying, lances gleaming, and the rich swell of 
triumphant music echoing on the air. Hobles and dames 


54 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


mingled indiscriminately together. Beautiful palfreys or 
well-trained glossy mules, richly caparisoned, gracefully 
guided by the dames and maidens, bore their part well 
amid the more fiery charges of their companions. The 
queen rode at King Robert’s left hand, the primate of 
Scotland at his right, Lennox, Seaton, and Hay thronged 
around the Countess of Buchan, eager to pay her that 
courteous homage which she now no longer refused, and 
willingly joined in their animated converse. The Lady 
Mary Campbell and her sister Lady Seaton found an 
equally gallant and willing escort, as did the other noble 
dames; but none ventured to dispute the possession of the 
maiden of Buchan with the gallant Nigel, who, riding close 
at her bridle rein, ever and anon whispered some magic 
words that called a blush to her cheek and a smile on her 
lip, their attention called off now and then by some wild 
jest or courteous word from the young Lord Douglas, 
whose post seemed in every part of the royal train; now 
galloping to the front, to caracole by the side of the queen, 
to accustom her, he said, to the sight of good horseman- 
ship, then lingering beside the Countess of Buchan, to give 
some unexpected rejoinder to the graver maxims of Len- 
nox. The Princess Margory, her cousins, the Lady Isoline 
Campbell and Alice and Christina Seaton, escorted by 
Alan of Buchan, Walter Fitz-Alan, Alexander Fraser, and 
many other young esquires, rejoicing in the task assigned 
them. 

It was a gay and gorgeous sight, and beautiful the 
ringing laugh and silvery voice of youth. No dream of 
desponding dread shadowed their hearts, though danger 
and suffering, and defeat and death, were darkly gathering 
round them. Who, as he treads the elastic earth, fresh 
with the breeze of day, as he gazes on the cloudless blue of 
the circling sky, or the dazzling rays of the morning sun, 
as the hum of happy life is round him — who is there thinks 
of the silence, and darkness, and tempest that come in a 
few brief hours, on the shadowy pinions of night? 


CHAPTER VI. 

Some ten or twelve days after the momentous event re- 
corded in our last chapter, King Edward’s royal palace, at 
Winchester, was thronged at an unusually early hour by 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


55 


many noble knights and barons, bearing on their counte- 
nances symptoms of some new and unexpected excitement; 
and there was a dark boding gloom on the now contracted 
brow and altered features of England’s king, as, weak- 
ened and well-nigh worn out by a lingering disease, he re- 
clined on a well-cushioned couch, to receive the eagerly- 
offered homage of his loyal barons. He, who had been 
from earliest youth a warrior, with whose might and 
dauntless prowess there was not one, or prince, or noble, or 
English, or foreigner, could compete, whose strength of 
frame and energy of mind had ever borne him scathless 
and uninjured through scenes of fatigue, and danger, and 
blood, and death; whose sword had restored a kingdom to 
his father — had struggled for Palestine and her holy pil- 
grims — had given Wales to England, and again and again 
prostrated the hopes and energies of Scotland into the 
dust; even he, this mighty prince, lay prostrate now, un- 
able to conquer or to struggle with disease — disease that 
attacked the slave, the lowest serf or yeoman of his land, 
and thus made manifest, how in the sight of that King of 
kings, from whom both might and weakness come, the 
prince and peasant are alike — the monarch and the slave! 

The disease had been indeed in part subdued, but 
Edward could not close his eyes to the fact that he should 
never again be what he had been; that the strength which 
had enabled him to do and endure so much, the energy 
which had ever led him on to victory, the fire which had so 
often inspired his own heart, and urged on, as by magic 
power, his followers — that all these were gone from him, 
and forever. Ambition, indeed, yet burned within, strong, 
undying, mighty; aye, perhaps mightier than ever, as the 
power of satisfying that ambition glided from his grasp, 
lie had rested, indeed, a brief while, secure in the fulfil- 
ment of his darling wish, that every rood of land com- 
posing the British Isles should be united under him as 
sole sovereign; he believed, and rejoiced in the belief, that 
with Wallace all hope or desire of resistance had departed. 
His disease had been at its height, when Bruce departed 
from his court, and disabled him for a while from com- 
posedly considering how that event would affect his in- 
terest in Scotland. As the violence of the disease sub- 
sided, however, he had leisure to contemplate and become 
anxious. Humors, some extravagant, some probable, now 
floated about; and the sovereign looked anxiously to the 
high festival of Easter to bring all his barons around him, 


56 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


and by the absence or presence of the suspected, discover 
at once how far his suspicions and the floating rumors 
were correct. 

Although the indisposition of the sovereign prevented 
the feasting, merry-making, and other customary marks of 
royal munificence, which ever attended the solemnization 
of Easter, yet it did not in any way interfere with the 
bounden duty of every earl and baron, knight and liege- 
man, and high ecclesiastics of the realm to present them- 
selves before the monarch at such a time; Easter, Whit- 
suntide, and Christmas, being the seasons when every loyal 
subject of fit degree appeared attendant on his sovereign, 
without any summons so to do. 

They had been seasons of peculiar '•interest since the 
dismemberment of Scotland, for Edward’s power was such, 
that seldom had the peers and other great officers of that 
land refused the tacit acknowledgment of England’s su- 
premacy by their non-appearance. Even in that which 
was deemed the rebellion of Wallace, the highest families, 
even the competitors for the crown, and all the knights 
and vassals in their interest, had swelled the train of the 
conqueror; but this Easter ten or twelve great barons and 
their followers were missing. The nobles had eagerly and 
anxiously scanned the countenances of each, and whispered 
suspicions and rumors, which one glance on their mon- 
arch’s ruffled brow confirmed. 

“ So ho ! my faithful lords and gallant knights,” he 
exclaimed, after the preliminaries of courtesy between each 
noble and his sovereign had been more hastily than usual 
performed, speaking in a tone so unusually harsh and sar- 
castic, that the terms “ faithful and gallant ” seemed used 
but in mockery ; “ so ho ! these are strange news we hear. 
Where be my lords of Carrick, Athol, Lennox, Hay? 
Where be the knights of Seaton, Somerville, Keith, and 
very many others we could name? Where be these proud 
lords, I say? Are none of ye well informed on these 
things ? I ask ye where be they ? Why are they not 
here ? ” 

There was a pause, for none dared risk reply. Edward’s 
voice had waxed louder and louder, his sallow cheek flushed 
with wrath, and he raised himself from his couch, as if 
irritability of thought had imparted strength to his frame. 

“ I ask ye, where be these truant lords ? There be some 
of ye who can reply; aye, and by good St. Edward, reply 
ye shall. Gloucester, my lord of Gloucester, stand forth, I 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


57 


say,” he continued, the thunderstorm drawing to that 
climax which made many tremble, lest its bolt should fall 
on the daring baron who rumor said was implicated in the 
flight of the Bruce, and who now stood, his perfect self- 
possession and calmness of mien and feature contrasting 
well with the fury of his sovereign. 

“And darest thou front me with that bold, shameless 
brow, false traitor as thou art ? ” continued the king, as, 
with head erect and arms proudly folded in his mantle, 
Gloucester obeyed the king’s impatient summons. “ Trait- 
or! I call thee traitor! aye, in the presence of thy coun- 
try’s noblest peers, I charge thee with a traitor’s deed; 
deny it, if thou darest.” 

“ ’Tis my sovereign speaks the word, else had it not 
been spoken with impunity,” returned the noble, proudly 
and composedly, though his cheek burned and his eye 
flashed. “ Yes, monarch of England, I dare deny the 
charge ! Gloucester is no traitor ! ” 

“ How ! dost thou brave me, minion ? Darest thou 
deny the fact, that from thee, from thy traitorous hand, 
thy base connivance, Robert of Carrick, warned that we 
knew his treachery, fled from our power — that ’tis to thee, 
we owe the pleasant news we have but now received?- Hast 
thou not given that rebel Scotland a head, a chief, in this 
fell traitor, and art thou not part and parcel of his guilt? 
Darest thou deny that from thee he received intelligence 
and means of flight? Baron of Gloucester, thou darest not 
add the stigma of falsity to thy already dishonored name ! ” 

“ Sovereign of England, my gracious liege and hon- 
ored king,” answered Gloucester, still apparently unmoved, 
and utterly regardless of the danger in which he stood, 
“ dishonor is not further removed from thy royal name 
than it is from Gloucester’s. I bear no stain of either fal- 
sity or treachery; that which thou hast laid to my charge 
regarding the Earl of Carrick, I shrink not, care not 
to acknowledge ; yet, Edward of England, I am no 
traitor ! ” 

“ Ha ! thou specious orator, reconcile the two an thou 
canst! Thou art a scholar of deep research and eloquence 
profound we have heard. Speak on, then, in Heaven’s 
name ! ” He flung himself back on his cushions as he 
spoke, for despite his wrath, his suspicions, there was that 
in the calm, chivalric bearing of the earl that appealed not 
in vain to one who had so long been the soul of chivalry 
himself. 


58 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


The tone in which his sovereign spoke was softened, 
though his words were bitter, and Gloucester at once re- 
laxed from his proud and cold reserve; kneeling before 
him, he spoke with fervor and impassioned truth : 

“ Condemn me not unheard, my gracious sovereign,” he 
said. “ I speak not to a harsh and despotic king, who 
brings his faithful subjects to the block at the first whisper 
of evil or misguided conduct cast to their charge; were 
Edward such, Gloucester would speak not, hope not for 
justice at his hands; but to thee, my liege, to thee, to 
whom all true knights may look up as to the mirror of all 
that knight should be — the life and soul of chivalry — to 
thee, the noblest warrior, the truest knight that ever put 
lance in rest — to thee, I say, I am no traitor; and appeal 
but to the spirit of chivalry actuating thine own heart to 
acquit or condemn me, as it listeth. Hear me, my liege. 
Robert of Carrick and myself were sworn brothers from 
the first hour of our entrance together upon life, as pages, 
esquires, and finally, as knights, made such by thine own 
royal hand; brothers in arms, in dangers, in victories, in 
defeat; aye, and brothers — more than brothers — in mutual 
fidelity and love; to receive life, to be rescued from captiv- 
ity at each other’s hand, to become equal sharers of what- 
ever honors might be granted to the one and not the other. 
Need my sovereign be reminded that such constitutes the 
ties of brothers in arms, and such brothers were Robert of 
Carrick and Gilbert of Gloucester. There came a rumor 
that the instigations of a base traitor had poisoned your 
grace’s ear against one of these sworn brothers, threatening 
his liberty if not his life; that which was revealed, its ex- 
act truth or falsehood, might Gloucester pause to list or 
weigh? My liege, thou knowest it could not be. A piece 
of money and a pair of spurs was all the hint, the warning, 
that he dared to give, and it was given, and its warning 
taken; and the imperative duty the laws of chivalry, of 
honor, friendship, all alike demanded done. The brother 
by the brother saved! Was Gloucester, then, a traitor to 
his sovereign, good my liege ? ” 

“ Say first, my lord, how Gloucester now will reconcile 
these widely adverse duties, how comport himself, if duty 
to his liege and sovereign call on him to lift his sword 
against his brother ? ” demanded Edward, raising himself 
on his elbow, and looking on the kneeling nobleman with 
eyes which seemed to have recovered their flashing light to 
penetrate his soul. Wrath itself appeared to have sub- 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


59 


sided before this calm yet eloquent appeal, which in that 
age could scarcely have been resisted without affecting the 
honor of the knight to whom it was addressed. 

An expression of suffering, amounting almost to an- 
guish, took the place of energy and fervor on the noble 
countenance of Gloucester, and his voice, which had never 
once quivered or failed him in the height of Edward’s 
wrath, now absolutely shook with the effort to master his 
emotion. Twice he essayed to speak ere words came; at 
length — 

“ With Robert of Garrick Gilbert of Gloucester was al- 
lied as brother, my liege,” he said. “ With Robert the 
rebel, Robert the would-be king, the daring opposer of my 
sovereign, Gloucester can have naught in common. My 
liege, as a knight and gentleman, I have done my duty 
fearlessly, openly; as fearlessly, as openly, as your grace’s 
loyal liegeman, fief, and subject, in the camp and in the 
court, in victory or defeat, against all manner or ranks of 
men, be they friends or foes; to my secret heart I am 
thine, and thine alone. In proof of which submission, my 
royal liege, lest still in your grace’s judgment Gloucester 
be not cleared from treachery, behold I resign alike my 
sword and coronet to your royal hands, never again to be 
resumed, save at my sovereign’s bidding.” 

His voice became again firm ere he concluded, and with 
the same respectful deference yet manly pride which had 
marked his bearing throughout, he laid his sheathed sword 
and golden coronet at his sovereign’s feet, and then rising 
steadily and unflinchingly, returned Edward’s searching 
glance, and calmly awaited his decision. 

“ By St. Edward ! Baron of Gloucester,” he exclaimed, 
in his own tone of kingly courtesy, mingled with a species 
of admiration he cared not to conceal, “ thou hast fairly 
challenged us to run a tilt with thee, not of sword and 
lance, but of all knightly and generous courtesy. I were 
no true knight to condemn, nor king to mistrust thee; yet, 
of a truth, the fruit of thy rash act might chafe a cooler 
mood than ours. Knowest thou Sir John Comyn is mur- 
dered — murdered by the arch traitor thou hast saved from 
our wrath ? ” 

“ I heard it, good my liege,” calmly returned Glouces- 
ter. “ Robert of Carrick was no temper to pass by in- 
juries, aggravated, traitorous injuries, unavenged.” 

“ And this is all thou sayest ! ” exclaimed Edward, his 
wrath once again gaining dominion. “ Wouldst thou de- 


60 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


fend this base deed on plea, forsooth, that Comyn was a 
traitor? Traitor — and to whom?” 

“ To the man that trusted him, my liege; to him he 
falsely swore to second and to aid. To every law of 
knighthood and of honor I say he was a traitor, and de- 
served his fate.” 

“ And this to thy sovereign, madman ? To us, whose 
dignity and person have been insulted, lowered, trampled 
on? By all the saints, thou hast tempted us too far! 
What ho, there, guards! Am I indeed so old and witless,” 
he muttered, sinking back again upon the couch from 
which he had started in the moment of excitement, “ as so 
soon to forget a knightly nobleness, which in former days 
would have knitted my very soul to his? Bah! ’tis this 
fell disease that spoke, not Edward. Away with ye, sir 
guards, we want ye not,” he added, imperatively, as they 
approached at his summons. “ And thou, sir earl, take up 
thy sword, and hence from my sight a while; — answer not, 
but obey. I fear more for mine own honor than thou dost 
for thy head. We neither disarm nor restrain thee, for 
we trust thee still; but away with thee, for on our kingly 
faith, thou hast tried us sorely.” 

Gloucester flung himself on his knee beside his sover- 
eign, his lips upon the royal hand, which, though scarcely 
yielded to him, was not withheld, and hastily resuming his 
sword and coronet, with a deep reverence, silently with- 
drew. 

The king looked after him, admiration and fierce anger 
struggling for dominion alike on his countenance as in his 
heart, and then sternly and piercingly he scanned the noble 
crowd, who, hushed into a silence of terror as well as of ex- 
treme interest during the scene they had beheld, now 
seemed absolutely to shrink from the dark, flashing orbs of 
the king, as they rested on each successively, as if the 
accusation of lip would follow that of eye, and the charge 
of treason fall indiscriminately on all ; but, exhausted from 
the passion to which he had given vent, Edward - once more 
stretched himself on his cushions, and merely muttered : 

“ Deserved his fate — a traitor. Is Gloucester mad — or 
worse, disloyal? No; that open brow and fearless eye are 
truth and faithfulness alone. I will not doubt him; Tis 
but his lingering love for that foul traitor, Bruce, which I 
were no true knight to hold in blame. But that murder, 
that base murder — insult alike to our authority, our realm 
— by every saint in heaven, it shall be fearfully avenged, 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


61 


and that madman rue the day he dared fling down the 
gauntlet of rebellion ! ” and as he spoke, his right hand 
instinctively grasped the hilt of his sword, and half drew 
it from its sheath. 

“ Madman, in very truth, my liege,” said Aymer de Va- 
lence, Earl of Pembroke, who, high in favor with his sov- 
ereign, alone ventured to address him ; “ as your grace will 
believe, when I say not only hath he dared defy thee by the 
murder of Comyn, but has had the presumptuous folly to 
enact the farce of coronation, taking upon himself all the 
insignia of a king.” 

“How! what sayst thou, De Valence,” returned Ed- 
ward, again starting up, “ coronation — king ? By St. 
Edward! this passeth all credence. Whence hadst thou 
this witless news ? ” 

“ From sure authority, my liege, marvellous as they 
seem. These papers, if it please your grace to peruse, con- 
tain matters of import which demand most serious atten- 
tion.” 

“ Anon, anon, sir earl ! ” answered Edward, impatient- 
ly, as Pembroke, kneeling, laid the papers on a small table 
of ivory which stood at the monarch’s side. “ Tell me more 
of this strange farce ; a king, ha ! ha ! Does the rebel 
think ’tis but to put a crown upon his head and a sceptre 
in his hand that makes the monarch — a king, forsooth. 
And who officiated at this right solemn mockery? ’Twas, 
doubtless, a goodly sight ! ” 

“ On my knightly faith, my liege, strangely, yet truly, 
’twas a ceremony regally performed, and, save for numbers, 
regally attended.” 

“ Thou darest not tell me so ! ” exclaimed the king, 
striking his clenched hand fiercely on the table. “ I tell 
thee thou darest not; ’tis a false tale, a lie thrust upon 
thee to rouse thy spirit but to laugh at. De Valence, I tell 
thee ’tis a thing that cannot be! Scotland is laid too 
low, her energies are crushed; her best and bravest lying 
in no bloodless graves. Who is there to attend this pup- 
pet king, save the few we miss? who dared provoke our 
wrath by the countenance of such a deed? Who would 
dare tempt our fury by placing a crown on the rebel’s 
head? I tell thee they have played thee false — it cannot 
be!” 

“ Thy valor hath done much, my gracious liege,” re- 
turned Pembroke, “ far more than ever king hath done 
before; but pardon me, your grace, the people of Scotland 


62 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


are not yet crushed; they lie apparently in peace, till a 
chief capable of guiding, lordly in rank and knightly in 
war, ariseth, and then they too stand forth. Yet what are 
they? they do but nominally swell the rebel’s court: they 
do but seem a multitude, which needs but thy presence to 
disperse. He cannot, if he dare, resist thee.” 

“ And wherefore should these tidings so disturb your 
grace ? ” interposed the Earl of Hereford, a brave, blunt 
soldier, like his own charger, snuffing the scent of war far 
off. “ We have but to bridle on our harness, and we shall 
hear no more of solemn farces like to this. Give but the 
word, my sovereign, and these ignoble rebels shall be cut 
off to a man, by an army as numerous and well appointed 
as any that have yet followed your grace to victory; ’tis a 
pity they have but to encounter traitors and rebels, instead 
of knightly foes,” continued the High Constable of Eng- 
land. 

“ Perchance Robert of Carrick deems the assumption of 
king will provoke your grace to combat even more than his 
traitorous rebellion, imagining, in his madness, the title 
of king may make ye equals,” laughingly observed the Earl 
of Arundel; and remarks and opinions of similar import 
passed round, but Edward, who had snatched the papers as 
he ceased to speak, and was now deeply engrossed in their 
contents, neither replied to nor heeded them. Darker and 
darker grew the frown upon his brow; his tightly com- 
pressed lip, his heaving chest betraying the fearful passion 
that agitated him; but when he spoke, there was evidently 
a struggle for that dignified calmness which in general dis- 
tinguished him, though ever and anon burst forth the un- 
disguised voice of wrath. 

“ ’Tis well, ’tis very well,” he said. “ These wild Scots 
would tempt us to the utmost, and they shall be satisfied. 
Ah! my lords of Buchan and Fife, give ye good morrow. 
What think ye of these doings amidst your countrymen; 
bethink ye they have done well ? ” 

“ Well, as relates to their own ruin, aye, very well, my 
liege; they act but as would every follower of the mur- 
derer Bruce,” replied Buchan, harshly and sullenly. 

“ They are mad, stark mad, your highness ; the loss of a 
little blood may bring them to their senses,” rejoined the 
more volatile Fife. 

“ And is it thus ye think, base, villainous traitors as 
ye are, leagued with the rebel band in his coronation? 
My Lord of Chester, attach them of high treason.” 


THE DAYS OF BIIUCE. 


63 


“ What means your grace ? ” exclaimed both noblemen 
at once, but in very different accents. “ Of what are we 
charged, and who dare make this lying accusation ? ” 

“ Are ye indeed so ignorant?” replied the king, jibing- 
ly. “ Know ye not that Isabella, Countess of Buchan, and 
representative, in the absence of her brother, of the earl- 
dom of Fife, hath so dared our displeasure as to place the 
crown on the rebel’s head, and vow him homage ? ” 

“ Hath she indeed dared so to do ? By Heaven, she 
shall rue this ! ” burst wrathfully from Buchan, his 
swarthy countenance assuming a yet swarthier aspect. 
“ My liege, I swear to thee, by the Holy Cross, I knew no 
more of this than did your grace. Thinkest thou I would 
aid and abet the cause of one not merely a rebel and a 
traitor, but the foul murderer of a Comyn — one at whose 
hands, by the sword’s point, have I sworn to demand my 
kinsman, and avenge him ? ” 

“ And wherefore did Isabella of Buchan take upon her- 
self this deed, my liege, but because the only male de- 
scendant of her house refused to give his countenance or 
aid to this false earl? Because Duncan of Fife was 
neither a rebel himself nor gave his aid to rebels. On the 
honor of a knight, my liege, I know naught of this foul 
deed.” 

“ It may be, it may be,” answered Edward, impatiently. 
“We will see to it, and condemn ye not unheard; but in 
times like these, when traitors and rebels walk abroad and 
insult us to our very teeth, by St. Edward, our honor, our 
safety demands the committal of the suspected till they be 
cleared. Resign your swords to my Lord of Chester, and 
confine yourselves to your apartments. If ye be innocent, 
we will find means to repay you for the injustice we have 
done; if not, the axe and the block shall make short work. 
Begone ! ” 

Black as a thunderbolt was the scowl that lowered over 
the brow of Buchan, as he sullenly unclasped his sword and 
gave it into the Lord Constable’s hand; while with an ac- 
tion of careless recklessness the Earl of Fife followed his 
example, and they retired together, the one scowling de- 
fiance on all who crossed his path, the other jesting and 
laughing with each and all. 

“ I would not give my best falcon as pledge for the 
Countess of Buchan’s well-doing, an she hath done this 
without her lord’s connivance,” whispered the Prince of 
Wales to one of his favorites, with many of whom he had 


64 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


been conversing, in a low voice, as if his father’s wrathful 
accents were not particularly grateful to his ear. 

“ Nor would I pledge a hawk for her safety, if she fell 
into his grace’s hands, whether with her lord’s consent or 
no,” replied the young nobleman, laughing. “ Your royal 
father is fearfully incensed.” 

“ Better destroy them root and branch at once,” said 
the prince, who, like all w T eak minds, loved any extremity 
better than a protracted struggle. “ Exterminate with 
fire and sword; ravage the land till there be neither food 
for man nor beast; let neither noble nor serf remain, and 
then, perchance, we shall hear no more of Scotland. On 
my faith, I am sick of the word.” 

“ Not so the king, my royal lord,” returned his com- 
panion. “ See how eagerly he talks to my lords of Pem- 
broke and Hereford. We shall have our sovereign yet 
again at our head.” 

And it was even as he said. The king, with that strong 
self-command which disease alone could in any way cause 
to fail, now conquering alike his bitter disappointment and 
the fury it engendered, turned his whole thought and en- 
ergy toward obtaining the downfall of his insolent oppo- 
nents at one stroke; and for that purpose, summoning 
around him the brave companions of former campaigns, 
and other officers of state, he retired with them to his pri- 
vate closet to deliberate more at length on the extraordinary 
news they had received, and the best means of nipping the 
rebellion in the bud. 


CHAPTER VII. 

The evening of this eventful day found the Scottish 
earls seated together in a small apartment of one of the 
buildings adjoining the royal palace, which in the solemn 
seasons we have enumerated was always crowded with 
guests, who were there feasted and maintained at the 
king’s expense during the whole of their stay. Incon- 
veniences in their private quarters were little heeded by 
the nobles, who seldom found themselves there, save for 
the purpose of a few hours sleep, and served but to enhance 
by contrast the lavish richness and luxury which surround- 
ed them in the palace and presence of their king; but to 


THE DAYS OE BRUCE. 


65 


the Earls of Buchan and Fife the inconveniences of their 
quarters very materially increased the irritability and an- 
noyance of their present situation Fife had stretched 
himself on two chairs, and leaning his elbows on the broad 
shelf formed by the small casement, cast many wistful 
glances on the street below, through which richly-attired 
gallants, both on foot and horseback, were continually 
passing. He was one of those frivolous little minds with 
whom the present is all in all, caring little for the past, 
and still less for the future. It was no marvel, therefore, 
that he preferred the utter abandonment of his distracted 
country for the luxury and ease attending the court and 
camp of Edward, to the great dangers and little recom- 
pense attending the toils and struggles of a patriot. The 
only emotion of any weight with him was the remembrance 
of and desire of avenging petty injuries, fancying and 
aggravating them when, in fact, none was intended. 

Very different was the character of the Earl of Buchan; 
morose, fierce, his natural hardness of disposition unsoft- 
ened by one whisper of chivalry, although educated in the 
best school of knighthood, and continually the follower of 
King Edward, he adhered to him first, simply because his 
estates in England were far more to his taste than those in 
Scotland, toward which he felt no filial tie; and soon after 
his marriage, repugnance to his high-minded and richly- 
gifted countess, which ever seemed a reproach and slur 
upon himself, kept him still more aloof, satisfied that the 
close retirement in which she lived, the desert and rugged 
situation of his castle, would effectually debar her from 
using that influence he knew she possessed, and keep her 
wholly and solely his own ; a strange kind of feeling, when, 
in reality, the wide contrast between them made her an 
object of dislike, only to be accounted for by the fact that 
a dark, suspicious, jealous temper was ever at work within 
him. 

“ Now, do but look at that fellow’s doublet, Comyn. 
Look, how gay they pass below, and here am I, with my 
new richly-broidered suit, with w T hich I thought to brave 
it with the best of them — here am I, I say, pent up in stone 
walls like a caged goldfinch, ’stead of the entertainment I 
had pictured; ’tis enough to chafe the spirit of a saint.” 

“ And canst thou think of such things now, thou sorry 
fool ? ” demanded Buchan, sternly, pausing in his hurried 
stride up and down the narrow precincts of the chamber; 
“ hast thou no worthier subject for contemplation ? ” 


66 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


“None, save thy dutiful wife’s most dutiful conduct, 
Comyn, which, being the less agreeable of the two, I dis- 
miss the first. I owe her small thanks for playing the rep- 
resentative of my house ; methinks her imprisonment 
would better serve King Edward’s cause and ours too.” 

“ Aye, imprisonment — imprisonment for life,” muttered 
the earl, slowly. “ Let but King Edward restore me my 
good sword, and he may wreak his vengeance on her as he 
listeth. Not all the castles of Scotland, the arms of Scot- 
tish men, dare guard a wife against her husband; bitterly 
shall she rue this deed.” 

“ And thy son, my gentle kinsman, what wilt thou do 
with him, bethink thee? Thou wilt find him as great a 
rebel as his mother; I have ever told thee thou wert a fool 
to leave him so long with his brainstruck mother.” 

“ She hath not, she dared not bring him with her to the 
murderer of his kinsman — Duncan of Fife, I tell thee she 
dare not; but if she hath, why he is but a child, a mere 
boy, incapable of forming judgment one way or the other.” 

“Not so much a child as thou thinkest, my good lord; 
some sixteen years or so have made a stalwart warrior ere 
this. Be warned ; send off a trusty messenger to the 
Tower of Buchan, and, without any time for warning, 
bring that boy as the hostage of thy good faith and loyalty 
to Edward; thou wilt thus cure him of his patriotic fan- 
cies, and render thine interest secure, and as thou desirest 
to reward thy dutiful partner, thou wilt do it effectually; 
for, trust me, that boy is the very apple of her eye, in her 
affections her very doting-place.” 

“ Jest not, Duncan, or by all the saints, thou wilt drive 
me mad ! ” wrathfully exclaimed Buchan. “ It shall be as 
thou sayest; and more, I will gain the royal warrant for 
the deed — permission to this effect may shorten this cursed 
confinement for us both. I have forgotten the boy’s age; 
his mother’s high-sounding patriotism may have tinctured 
him already. Thou smilest.” 

“ At thy marvellous good faith in thy wife’s patriotism , 
good kinsman — oh, well perchance, like charity, it cover- 
eth a multitude of sins.” 

“What meanest thou, my Lord of Fife?” demanded 
Buchan, shortly and abruptly, pausing in his walk to face 
his companion, his suspicious temper instantly aroused by 
Fife’s peculiar tone. “ What wouldst thou insinuate ? 
Tamper not with me; thou knowest I am no subject for 
a jest.” 


THE DAYS OF BIIUCE. 


67 


“ I have but to look on thee to know that, my most 
solemn-visaged brother. I neither insinuate nor tamper 
with your lordship. Simply and heartily I do but give 
thee joy for thy faith in female patriotism,” answered Fife, 
carelessly, but with an expression of countenance that did 
not accord with his tone. 

“ What, in the fiend’s name, then, has urged her to this 
mad act, if it be not what she and others as mad as she call 
patriotism ? ” 

“ May not a lurking affection for the Bruce have given 
incentive to love of country? Buchan, of a truth, thou art 
dull as a sword-blade when plunged in muddy water.” 

“ Affection for the Bruce ? Thou art mad as she is, 
Duncan. What the foul fiend, knows she of the Bruce? 
No, no! ’tis too wild a tale — when have they ever met? ” 

More often than thou listeth, gentle kinsman,” re- 
turned Fife, with just sufficient show of mystery to lash 
his companion into fury. “ I could tell thee of a time 
when Robert of Carrick was domesticated with my im- 
maculate sister, hunting with her, hawking with her, read- 
ing with her, making favorable impressions on every heart 
in Fife Castle save mine own.” 

“ And she loved him ! — she was loved,” muttered Bu- 
chan ; “ and she vowed her troth to me, the foul-mouthed 
traitress ! She loved him, saidst thou ? ” 

“ On my faith, I know not, Comyn. Rumors, I know, 
went abroad that it would have been better for the Lady 
Isabella’s peace and honor if this gallant, fair-spoken 
knight had kept aloof.” 

“ And thou, her brother, carest not to speak these 
things, and in that reckless tone? By St. Swithin, ye are 
well matched,” returned Buchan, with a short and bitter 
laugh of scorn. 

“ Faith, Comyn, I love mine own life and comfort too 
well to stand up the champion of woman’s honor; besides, 
I vouch not for the truth of floating rumors. I tell thee 
but what comes across my brain; for its worth thou art 
the best judge.” 

“ I were a fool to mine own interest to doubt thee now, 
little worth as are thy words in common,” again muttered 
the incensed earl, resuming his hasty strides. ‘ Patriot- 
ism! loyalty! ha, ha! high-sounding words, forsooth. And 
have they not met since then until now ? ” he demanded, 
stopping suddenly before his companion. 

“ Even so, fair kinsman. Whilst thou wert doing such 


68 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


loyal duty to Edward, after the battle of Falkirk, forgetting 
thou hadst a wife and castle to look after, Robert Earl of 
Carrick found a comfortable domicile within thy stone 
walls, and in the fair, sweet company of thine Isabella, my 
lord. No doubt, in all honorable and seemly intercourse; 
gallant devotion on the one side, and dignified courtesy on 
the other — nothing more, depend on’t; still it seems but 
natural that the memory of a comely face and knightly 
form should prove incentives to loyalty and patriotism.” 

“ The foul fiend take thy jesting ! ” exclaimed Buchan. 
“ Natural, forsooth; aye, the same nature that bade me 
loathe the presence, aye, the very name of that deceiving 
traitress. And so that smooth-faced villain Carrick found 
welcome in the castle of a Comyn the months we missed 
him from the court. Ha, ha! thou hast done me good 
service, Lord of Fife. I had not enough of injuries before 
to demand at the hand of Robert Bruce. And for Dame 
Isabella, may the fury of every fiend follow me, if I place 
her not in the hands of Edward, alive or dead! his wrath 
will save me the trouble of seeking further vengeance.” 

“ Nay, thou art a very fool to be so chafed,” coolly ob- 
served Fife. “ Thou hast taken no care of thy wife, and 
therefore hast no right to demand strict account of her 
amusements in thy absence; and how do we know she is 
not as virtuous as the rest of them? I do but tell thee 
of these things to pass away the time. Ha! there goes 
the prince’s Gascon favorite, by mine honor. Gaveston 
sports it bravely; look at his crimson mantle wadded with 
sables. He hath changed his garb since morning. Faith, 
he is a lucky dog! the prince’s love may be valued at some 
thousand marks a year — worth possessing, by St. Mi- 
chael ! ” 

A muttered oath was all the reply which his companion 
vouchsafed, nor did the thunder-cloud upon his brow dis- 
perse that evening. 

The careless recklessness of Fife had no power to lessen 
in the earl’s mind the weight of the shameful charge he 
had brought against the countess. Buchan’s dark, sus- 
picious mind not alone received it, but cherished it, revelled 
in it, as giving him that which he had long desired, a 
good foundation for dislike and jealousy, a well-founded 
pretence for every species of annoyance and revenge. The 
Earl of Fife, who had, in fact, merely spoken, as he had 
said, to while away the time, and for the pleasure of seeing 
his brother-in-law enraged, thought as little of his words 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


69 


after as he had before they were uttered. A licentious fol- 
lower of pleasure in every form himself, he imagined, as 
such thoughtless characters generally do, that everybody 
must be like him. From his weak and volatile mind, then, 
all remembrance of that evening’s conversation faded as 
soon as it was spoken; but with the Earl of Buchan it re- 
mained brooding on itself, and filling his dark spirit with 
yet blacker fancies. 

The confinement of the Scottish noblemen was not of 
long duration. Edward, whose temper, save when his am- 
bition was concerned, was generally just and equitable, dis- 
covering, after an impartial examination, that they were in 
no ways connected with the affairs in the north, and feel- 
ing also it was his interest to conciliate the regard of all 
the Scottish nobles disaffected to Bruce, very soon restored 
them alike to their personal liberty and to his favor; his 
courteous apology for unjust suspicion, frankly acknowl- 
edging that the news from Scotland, combined with his 
irritating disease, had rendered him blind and suspicious, 
at once disarmed Fife of wrath. Buchan, perhaps, had 
not been so easily appeased had his mind been less darkly 
engrossed. His petition, that his son might be sent for, to 
be placed as a hostage in the hands of Edward, and thus 
saved from the authority of his mother, whom he repre- 
sented as an artful, designing woman, possessed of danger- 
ous influence, was acceded to on the instant, and the king’s 
full confidence restored. It was easy to act upon Edward’s 
mind, already incensed against Isabella of Buchan for her 
daring defiance of his power; and Buchan did work, till he 
felt fully satisfied that the wife he hated would be fully 
cared for without the very smallest trouble or interference 
on his part, save the obtaining possession of her person; 
that the vengeance he had vowed would be fully perfected, 
without any reproach or stigma cast upon his name. 

Meantime the exertions of the King of England for the 
suppression of the rebels continued with unabated ardor. 
Orders were issued and proclaimed in every part of Eng- 
land for the gathering together one of the noblest and 
mightiest armies that had ever yet followed him to war. 
To render it still more splendidly impressive, and give 
fresh incentive to his subjects, whose warlike spirit he per- 
haps feared might be somewhat depressed by this constant 
call upon them for the reduction of a country ever rising 
in revolt, Edward caused proclamation to be severally made 
in every important town or county, “ that all who were 


70 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


under the obligation to become knights, and possessed the 
necessary means, should appear at Westminster on the 
coming solemn season of Whitsuntide, where they should be 
furnished with every requisite, save and accept the trap- 
pings for their horses, from the king’s wardrobe, and be 
treated with all solemn honor and distinction as best be- 
fitted their rank, and the holy vows they took upon them- 
selves.” 

A proclamation such as this, in the very heart of the 
chivalric era, was all-sufficient to engage every Englishman 
heart and soul in the service of his king; and ere the few 
weeks intervening between Easter and Whitsuntide were 
passed, Westminster and its environs presented a scene of 
martial magnificence and knightly splendor, which had 
never before been equalled. Three hundred noble youths, 
sons of earls, barons, and knights, speedily assembled at 
the place appointed, all attended according to their rank 
and pretensions; all hot and fiery spirits, eager to prove by 
their prompt attendance their desire to accept their sover- 
eign’s invitation. The splendor of their attire seemed to 
demand little increase from the bounty of the king, but 
nevertheless, fine linen garments, rich purple robes, and 
superb mantles woven with gold, were bestowed on each 
youthful candidate, thus strengthening the links which 
bound him to his chivalric sovereign, by the gratification 
of his vanity in addition to the envied honors of knight- 
hood. As our tale relates more to Scottish than to Eng- 
lish history, we may not linger longer on the affairs of 
South Britain than is absolutely necessary for the clear 
comprehension of the situation of her far less flourishing 
sister. Exciting therefore as was the scene enacted in 
Westminster, descriptive as it was of the spirit of the age, 
we are compelled to give it but a hasty glance, and pass 
on to events of greater moment. 

Glorious, indeed, to an eyewitness, must have been the 
ceremony of admitting these noble and valiant youths into 
the solemn mysteries and chivalric honors of knighthood. 
On that day the Prince of Wales was first dubbed a knight, 
and made Duke of Aquitaine; and so great was the pres- 
sure of the crowd, in their eagerness to witness the cere- 
monial in the abbey, where the prince hastened to confer 
his newly-received dignity on his companions, that three 
knights were killed, and several fainted from heat and ex- 
haustion. Strong war-horses were compelled to drive back 
and divide the pressing crowds, ere the ceremony was al- 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


71 


lowed to proceed. A solemn banquet succeeded; and then 
it was that Edward, whose energy of mind appeared com- 
pletely to have annihilated disease and weakness of frame, 
made that extraordinary vow, which it has puzzled both 
historian and antiquary satisfactorily to explain. The 
matter of the vow merely betrayed the indomitable spirit 
of the man, but the matter seemed strange even in that 
age. Two swans, decorated with golden nets and gilded 
reeds, were placed in solemn pomp before the king, and he, 
with imposing fervor, made a solemn vow to the Almighty 
and the swans, that he would go to Scotland, and, living or 
dead, avenge the murder of Comyn, and the broken faith 
of the traitorous Scots. Then, with that earnestness of 
voice and majesty of mien for which he was remarkable, 
he adjured his subjects, one and all, by the solemn fealty 
they had sworn to him, that if he should die on the jour- 
ney, they would carry his body into Scotland, and never 
give it burial till the prince’s dominion was established in 
that country. Eagerly and willingly the nobles gave the 
required pledge; and so much earnestness of purpose, so 
much martial spirit pervaded that gorgeous assembly, that 
once more did hope prevail in the monarch’s breast, once 
more did he believe his ambitious yearnings would all be 
fulfilled, and Scotland, rebellious, haughty Scotland, lie 
crushed and broken at his feet. Once more his dark eye 
flashed, his proud lip curled with its wonted smiles; his 
warrior form, erect and firm as in former days, now 
spurned the couch of disease, and rode his war-horse with 
all the grace and ease of former years. A gallant army, 
under the command of Aymer de Valence, Earl of Pem- 
broke, had already been dispatched toward Scotland, bear- 
ing with it the messengers of the Earl of Buchan, armed 
both with their lord’s commands and Edward’s warrant for 
the detention of the young heir of Buchan, and to bring 
him with all honor to the headquarters of the king. The 
name of Isabella of Buchan was subjoined to that of the 
Bruce, and together with all those concerned in his rising 
proclaimed as traitors and a price set upon their heads. This 
done, the king had been enabled to wait with greater tran- 
quillity the assembling of his larger army, and after the 
ceremonials of Westminster, orders were issued for every 
earl and baron to proceed with their followers to Carlisle, 
which was named the headquarters of the army, there to 
join their sovereign with his own immediate troops. The 
Scottish nobles Edward’s usual policy retained in honor- 


72 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


able posts about his person, not choosing to trust their 
fidelity beyond the reach of his own eye. 

Obedient to these commands, all England speedily ap- 
peared in motion, the troops of every county moving as by 
one impulse to Carlisle. Yet there were some of England’s 
noblest barons in whose breasts a species of admiration, 
even affection, was at work toward the very man they were 
now marching to destroy, and this was frequently the case 
in the ages of chivalry. Fickle as the character of Robert 
Bruce had appeared to be, there was that in it which had ever 
attracted, riveted the regard of many of the noble spirits 
in King Edward’s court. The rash daring of his enter- 
prise, the dangers which encircled him, were such as daz- 
zled and fascinated the imagination of those knights in 
whom the true spirit of chivalry found rest. Pre-eminent 
among these was the noble Earl of Gloucester. His duty 
to his sovereign urged him to take the field; his attach- 
ment for the Bruce would have held him neuter, for the 
ties that bound brothers in arms were of no common or 
wavering nature. Brothers in blood had frequently found 
themselves opposed horse to horse, and lance to lance, on 
the same field, and no scruples of conscience, no pleadings 
of affection, had power to avert the unnatural strife; but 
not such was it with brothers in arms — a link strong as 
adamant, pure as their own sword-steel, bound their hearts 
as one; and rather, much rather would Gloucester have 
laid down his own life, than expose himself to the fearful 
risk of staining his sword with the blood of his friend. 
The deepest dejection took possession of his soul, which 
not all the confidence of his sovereign, the gentle, affec- 
tionate pleadings of his wife, could in an way assuage. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

It was the month of June, and the beautiful county of 
Perth smiled in all the richness and loveliness of early 
summer. Hot yet had the signal of war floated on the 
pure springy breeze, not yet had the stains of blood dese- 
crated the gladsome earth, although the army of De Val- 
ence was now within very few miles of Scone, which was 
still the headquarters of the Scottish king. Aware of 


THE DAYS OF BKUCE. 


73 


the very great disparity of numbers between his gallant 
followers and those of Pembroke, King Robert preferred 
entrenching himself in his present guarded situation, to 
meeting De Valence in the open field, although more than 
once tempted to do so, and finding extreme difficulty in so 
curbing the dauntless spirit of his followers as to incline 
them more toward the defensive than the attack. Already 
had the fierce thunders of the Church been launched 
against him for the sin of murder committed in conse- 
crated ground. Excommunication in all its horrors, ex- 
posed him to death from any hand, that on any pretence of 
private hate or public weal might choose to strike; but 
already had there arisen spirits bold enough to dispute the 
awful mandates of the Pope, and the patriotic prelates who 
had before acknowledged and done homage to their sover- 
eign, now neither wavered in their allegiance nor in an 
way sought to promulgate the sentence thundered against 
him. A calm smile had passed over the Bruce’s noble fea- 
tures as the intelligence of the wrath of Rome was com- 
municated to him. 

“ The judge and the avenger is in heaven, holy father,” 
he said ; “ to His hands I commit my cause, conscious of 
deserving, as humbly awaiting, chastisement for that sin 
which none can reprobate and abhor more strongly than 
myself; if blood must flow for blood, His will be done. 
I ask but to free my country, to leave her in powerful yet 
righteous hands, and willingly I will depart, confident of 
mercy for my soul.” 

Fearful, however, that this sentence might dispirit his 
subjects, King Robert watched his opportunity of assem- 
bling and addressing them. In a brief, yet eloquent speech, 
he narrated the base, cold-blooded system of treachery of 
Comyn; how, when travelling to Scotland, firmly trusting 
in, and depending on, the good faith the traitor had so 
solemnly pledged, a brawl had arisen between his (Bruce’s) 
followers and some men in the garb of Borderers, who 
were discovered to be emissaries of the Red Comyn, and 
how papers had been found on them, in which all that 
could expose the Bruce to the deadly wrath of Edward was 
revealed, and his very death advised as the only effectual 
means of quelling his efforts for the freedom of Scotland, 
and crushing the last hopes of her still remaining patriots. 
He told them how, on the natural indignation excited by 
this black treachery subsiding, he had met Sir John Comyn 
at Dumfries — how, knowing the fierce irascibility of his 


74 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


natural temper, he had willingly agreed that the interview 
Cyomn demanded should take place in the church of the 
Minorite Friars, trusting that the sanctity of the place 
would be sufficient to restrain him. 

“ But who may answer for himself, my friends ? ” he 
continued, mournfully ; “ it needs not to dilate on that 
dark and stormy interview, suffice it that the traitor sought 
still to deceive, still to win me by his specious sophistry to 
reveal my plans, again to be betrayed, and that when I 
taunted him with his base, cowardly treachery, his black 
dishonor, words of wrath and hate, and blind deluded pas- 
sion arose between us, and the spirit of evil at work within 
me urged my rash sword to strike. Subjects and friends, 
I plead no temptation as excuse, I make no defence; I de- 
plore, I contemn the deed. If ye deem me worthy of death, 
if ye believe the sentence of our holy father in God, his 
holiness the Pope, be just, that it is wholly free from the 
machinations of England, who, deeming force of arms not 
sufficient, would hurl the wrath of heaven’s vicegerent on 
my devoted head, go, leave me to the fate it brings; your 
oath of allegiance is dissolved. I have yet faithful follow- 
ers, to make one bold stand against the tyrant, and die for 
Scotland ; but if ye absolve me, if ye will yet give me your 
hearts and swords, oh, fear me not, my countrymen, we may 
yet be free ! ” 

Cries, tears, and blessings followed this wisely-spoken 
appeal, one universal shout reiterated their vows of alle- 
giance ; those who had felt terrified at the mandate of their 
spiritual father, now traced it not to his impartial judg- 
ment, but to the schemes of Edward, and instantly felt its 
weight and magnitude had faded into air. The unwavering 
loyalty of the Primate of Scotland, the Bishop of Glasgow, 
and the Abbot of Scone strengthened them alike in their 
belief and allegiance, and a band of young citizens were in- 
stantly provided with arms at the expense of the town, and 
the king entreated by a deputation of the principal magis- 
trates to accept their services as a guard extraordinary, lest 
his life should be yet more endangered from private in- 
dividuals, by the sentence under which he labored; and 
gratified by their devotedness, though his bold spirit 
spurned all fear of secret assassination, their request was 
graciously accepted. 

The ceremony of knighthood which the king had prom- 
ised to confer on several of his young followers had been 
deferred until the present time, to admit of their preparing 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


75 


for their inauguration with all the solemn services of re- 
ligion which the rites enjoined. 

The 15th day of June was the time appointed, and Nigel 
Bruce and Alan of Buchan were to pass the night previous, 
in solemn prayer and vigil, in the abbey church of Scone. 
That rules of chivalry should not be transgressed by his 
desire to confer some honor on the son of the Countess of 
Buchan, which would demonstrate the high esteem in which 
she was held by her sovereign, Alan had served the king, 
first as page and then as esquire, in the interval that had 
elapsed since his coronation, and now he beheld with ardor 
the near completion of the honor for which he pined. His 
spirit had been wrung well-nigh to agony, when amid the 
list of the proscribed as traitors he beheld his mother’s 
name ; not so much at the dangers that would encircle her — 
for from those he might defend her — but that his father was 
still a follower of the unmanly tyrant who would even war 
against a woman — his father should still calmly assist and 
serve the man who set a price upon his mother’s head. 
Alas ! poor boy, he little knew that father’s heart. 

It was evening, a still, oppressive evening, for though 
the sun yet shone brightly as he sunk in the west, a suc- 
cession of black thunder-clouds, gradually rising higher and 
higher athwart the intense blue of the firmament, seemed 
to threaten that the wings of the tempest were already 
brooding on the dark bosom of night. The very flowers ap- 
peared to droop beneath the weight of the atmosphere; the 
trees moved not, the birds were silent, save when now and 
then a solitary note was heard, and then hushed, as if the 
little warbler shrunk back in his leafy nest, frightened at 
his own voice. Perchance it was the stillness of nature 
which had likewise affected the inmates of a retired cham- 
ber in the palace, for though they sate side by side, and 
their looks betrayed that the full communion of soul was 
not denied, few words were spoken. The maiden of Buchan 
bent over the frame which contained the blue satin scarf 
she was embroidering with the device of Bruce, in gold and 
gems, and it was Nigel Bruce who sate beside her, his deep, 
expressive eyes fixed upon her in such fervid, such eloquent 
love that seldom was it she ventured to raise her glance to 
his. A slight shadow was on those sweet and gentle fea- 
tures, perceptible, perchance, to the eye of love alone; and 
it was this that, after enjoying that silent communion of 
the spirit, so dear to those who love, which bade Nigel fling 
his arm around that slender form, and ask : 

6 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


76 


“ What is it, sweet one ? why art thou sad ? ” 

“ Do not ask me, Nigel, for indeed I know not,” she 
answered, simply, looking up a moment in his face, in that 
sweet touching confidence, which made him draw her closer 
to his protecting heart ; “ save that, perchance, the oppres- 
sion of nature has extended to me, and filled my soul with 
unfounded fancies of evil. I ought to be very happy, Nigel, 
loved thus by thee,” she hid her eyes upon his bosom ; “ re- 
ceived as thy promised bride, not alone by thy kind sisters, 
thy noble brothers, but — simple-hearted maiden as I am — 
deemed worthy of thee by good King Robert’s self. Nigel, 
dearest Nigel, why, in an hour of joy like this, should 
dreams of evil come ? ” 

“To whisper, my beloved, that not on earth may we look 
for the perfection of joy, the fulness of bliss; that while the 
mortal shell is round us joy is chained to pain, and granted 
us but to lift up the spirit to that heaven where pain is 
banished ; bliss made perfect ; dearest, ’tis but for this ! ” 
answered the young enthusiast, and the rich yet somewhat 
mournful tones of his voice thrilled to his listener’s heart. 

“ Thou speakest as if thou, too, hadst experienced fore- 
bodings like to these, my Nigel,” said Agnes, thoughtfully. 
“ I deemed them but the foolishness of my weaker mind.” 

“ Deem them not foolishness, beloved. There are minds, 
indeed, that know them not, but they are of that rude, 
coarse material which owns no thought, hath no hopes but 
those of earth and earthly things, insensible to that pro- 
fundity of joy which makes us feel its chain: ’tis not to 
the lightly feeling such forebodings come.” 

“But thou — hast thou felt them, Nigel, dearest? hast 
thou listened to, believed their voice? ” 

“ I have felt, I feel when I gaze on thee, sweet one, 
a joy so deep, so full, that I scarce dare trace it to an 
earthly cause,” he said, slightly evading a direct answer. 
“ I cannot look forward and, as it were, extend that deep joy 
to the future; but the fetter binding it to pain reminds me 
I am mortal, that not on earth may I demand and seek and 
hope to find its fulfilment.” 

She looked up in his face, with an expression both of be- 
wilderment and fear, and her hand unconsciously closed 
on his arm, as thus to detain him to her side. 

“ Yes, my beloved,” he added, with more animation, “ it 
is not because I put not my trust in earth for unfading joy 
that we shall find not its sweet flowers below ; that our paths 
on earth may be darkened, because the fulness of bliss is 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


17 


alone to be found in heaven. Mine own sweet Agnes, while 
darkness and strife, and blood and death, are thus at work 
around us, is it marvel we should sometimes dream of sor- 
row? Yet, oh yet, have we not both the same hope, the 
same God, the same home in heaven; and if our doom be 
to part on earth, shall we not, oh, shall we not meet in bliss ? 
I say not such things will be, my best beloved; but better 
look thus upon the dim shadow sometimes resting on the 
rosy wings of joy, than ever dismiss it as the vain folly of a 
weakened mind.” 

He pressed his lips, which quivered, on the fair, beauti- 
ful brow then resting in irresistible sorrow on his bosom; 
but he did not attempt by words to check that maiden’s sud- 
den burst of tears. After a while, when he found his own 
emotion sufficiently restrained, soothingly and fondly he 
cheered her to composure, and drew from her the thoughts 
which had disturbed her when he first spoke. 

u ’Twas of my mother, Nigel, of my beloved, my noble 
mother that I thought ; proscribed, hunted, set a price upon 
as a traitor. Can her children think on such indignity 
without emotion — and when I remember the great power 
of King Edward, who has done this — without fear for 
her fate ? ” 

“ Sweetest, fear not for her ; her noble deed, her daunt- 
less heroism has circled her with such a guard of gallant 
knights and warriors, that, in the hands of Edward, trust 
me, dearest, she shall never fall ; and even if such should be, 
still, I say, fear not. Unpitying and cruel as Edward is, 
where his ambition is concerned, he is too true a knight, too 
noble in spirit to take a woman’s blood ; he is now fearfully 
enraged, and therefore has he done this. And as to indig- 
nity, ’tis shame to the proscriber not to the proscribed, my 
love ! ” 

“ There is one I fear yet more than Edward,” continued 
the maiden, fearfully ; “ one that I should love more. Oh, 
Nigel, my very spirit shrinks from the image of my father. 
I have sought to love him, to dismiss the dark haunting vis- 
ions which his name has ever brought before me. I saw 
him once, but once, and his stern terrible features and harsh 
voice so terrified my childish fancies, that I hid myself till 
he had departed, and I have never seen him since, and yet, 
oh yet, I fear him ! ” 

“ What is it that thou f earest, love ? ” 

“ I know not,” she answered ; “ but if evil approach my 
mother, it will come from him, and so silently, so unsuspect- 


78 


THE BAYS OF BRUCE. 


edly, that none may avoid it. Nigel, he cannot love my 
mother! he is a foe to Bruce, a friend of the slaughtered 
Comyn, and will he not demand a stern account of the 
deed that she hath done? will he not seek vengeance? and 
oh, will he not, may he not in wrath part thee and me, and 
thus thy bodings be fulfilled ? ” 

“ Agnes, never! The mandate of man shall never part 
us; the power of man, unless my limbs be chained, shall 
never sever thee and me. He that hath never acted a fa- 
ther’s part, can have no power on his child. Thou art mine, 
my beloved! — mine with thy mother’s blessing; and mine 
thou shalt be — no earthly power shall part us. Death, death 
alone can break the links that bind us, and must be of God, 
though man may seem the cause. Be comforted, sweet love. 
Hark! they are chiming vespers; I must be gone for the 
solemn vigil of to-night, and to-morrow thou shalt arm 
thine own true knight, mine Agnes, and deck me with that 
blue scarf, more precious even than the jewelled sword my 
sovereign brother gives. Farewell, for a brief, brief while; 
I go to watch and pray. Oh, let thy orisons attend me, and 
surely then my vigil shall be blest.” 

“ Pray thou for me, my Nigel,” whispered the trembling 
girl, as he clasped her in his arms, “ that true as I may 
be, strength befitting thy promised bride may be mine own. 
Nigel, my beloved, indeed I need such prayer.” 

He whispered hope and comfort, and departed by the 
stone stairs which led from the gothic casement where they 
had been sitting, into the garden; he lingered to gather 
some delicate bluebells which had just blown, and turned 
back to place them in the lap of Agnes. She eagerly raised 
them and pressed them to her lips, but either their fragile 
blossoms could not bear even her soft touch, or the heavy 
air had inwardly withered their bloom, for the blossoms fell 
from their stalks, and scattered their beautiful petals at her 
feet. 


CHAPTEK IX. 

The hour of vespers had come and passed ; the organ and 
choir had hushed their solemn sounds. The abbot and his 
attendant monks, the king, who, with his train, had that 
evening joined the solemn service, all had departed, and but 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


79 


two inmates were left within the abbey church of Scone. 
Darkness and silence had assumed their undisturbed domin- 
ion, for the waxen tapers left burning on the altar lighted 
but a few yards round, leaving the nave and cloisters in im- 
penetrable gloom. Some twenty or thirty yards east of the 
altar, elevated some paces from the ground, in its light and 
graceful shrine, stood an elegantly sculptured figure of the 
Virgin and Child. A silver lamp, whose pure flame was 
fed with aromatic incense, burned within the shrine and 
shed its soft light on a suit of glittering armor which was 
hanging on the shaft of a pillar close beside it. Directly be- 
hind the altar was a large oriel window of stained glass, 
representing subjects from Scripture. The window, with 
its various mullions and lights, formed one high pointed 
arch, marked by solid stone pillars on each side, the capitals 
of which traced the commencement of the arch. Another 
window, similar in character, though somewhat smaller in 
dimensions, lighted the west end of the church ; and near it 
stood another shrine containing a figure of St. Stephen, 
lighted as was that of the Virgin and Child, and, like that, 
gleaming on a suit of armor, and on the figure of the youth- 
ful candidate for knighthood, whose task was to pass that 
night in prayer and vigil beside his armor, unarmed, saved 
by that panoply of proof which is the Christian’s portion — 
faith, lowliness, and prayer. 

No word passed between these pledged brothers in arms. 
Their watch was in opposite ends of the church, and save 
the dim, solemn light of the altar, darkness and immeasur- 
able space appeared to stretch between them. Faintly and 
fitfully the moon had shone through one of the long, narrow 
windows of the aisles, shedding its cold spectral light for 
a brief space, then passing into darkness. Heavy masses 
of clouds sailed slowly in the heavens, dimly discernible 
through the unpainted panes; the oppression of the atmos- 
phere increasing as the night approached her zenith, and 
ever and anon a low, long peal of distant thunder, each 
succeeding one becoming longer and louder than the last, 
and heralded by the blue flash of vivid lightning, announced 
the fury of the coming tempest. 

The imaginations even as the feelings of the young men 
were already strongly excited, although their thoughts, per- 
chance, were less akin than might have been expected. The 
form of his mother passed not from the mental vision of 
the young heir of Buchan: the tone of her voice, the un- 
wonted tear which had fallen on his cheek when he had 


80 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


knelt before her that evening, ere he had departed to his 
post, craving her blessing on his vigil, her prayers for him — 
that tone, that tear, lingered on his memory, hallowing 
every dream of glory, every warrior hope that entered in his 
soul. Internally he vowed he would raise the banner of his 
race, and prove the loyalty, the patriotism, the glowing love 
of liberty which her counsels, her example had planted in 
his breast; and if the recollection of his mother’s precari- 
ous situation as a proscribed traitor to Edward, and of 
his father’s desertion of his country and her patriot king 
in his adherence to a tyrant — if these reflections came to 
damp the bright glowing views of others, they did but call 
the indignant blood to his cheek, and add greater firmness 
to his impatient step, for yet more powerfully did they 
awake his indignation against Edward. Till now he had 
looked upon him exclusively in the light of Scotland’s foe — 
one against whom he with all true Scottish men must raise 
their swords, or live forever ’neath the brand of slaves and 
cowards; but now a personal cause of anger added fuel to 
the fire already burning in his breast. His mother was pro- 
scribed — a price set upon her head; and as if to fill the 
measure of his cup of bitterness to overflowing, his own 
father, he who should have been her protector, aided and 
abetted the cruel, pitiless Edward. Traitress! Isabella of 
Buchan a traitress! the noblest, purest, bravest amid Scot- 
land’s children. She who to him had ever seemed all that 
was pure and good, and noblest in woman; and most noble 
and patriot-hearted now, in the fulfilment of an office in- 
herent in the House of Fife. Agitated beyond expression, 
quicker and quicker he strode up and down the precincts 
marked for his watch, the increasing tempest without seem- 
ing to assimilate strangely with the storm within. Silence 
would have irritated, would have chafed those restless smart- 
ings into very agony, but the wild war of the elements, 
while they roused his young spirit into yet stronger energy, 
removed its pain. 

“ It matters not,” his train of thought continued, “ while 
this brain can think, this heart can feel, this arm retain 
its strength, Isabella of Buchan needs no other guardian 
but her son. It is as if years had left their impress on my 
heart, as if I had grown in very truth to man, thinking with 
man’s wisdom, fighting with man’s strength. He that hath 
never given a father’s love, hath never done a father’s 
duty, hath no claim upon his child; but she, whose un- 
tiring devotion, whose faithful love hath watched over 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


81 


me, guarded, blessed from the first hour of my life, in- 
stilled within me the principles of life on earth and im- 
mortality in heaven — mother! mother! will not thy gentle 
virtues cling around thy boy, and save him even from a 
father’s curse? Can I do else than devote the life thou 
gavest, to thee, and render back with my stronger arm, 
but not less firm soul, the care, protection, love thou hast 
bestowed on me? Mother, Virgin saint,” he continued 
aloud, flinging himself before the shrine to which we have 
alluded, “ hear, oh hear my prayer ! Intercede for me above, 
that strength, prudence, wisdom may be granted me in the 
accomplishment of my knightly vows; that my mother, my 
own mother may be the first and dearest object of my heart : 
life, fame, and honor I dedicate to her. Spare me, bless me 
but for her; if danger, imprisonment be unavailingly her 
doom, let not my spirit waver, nor my strength flag, nor 
courage nor foresight fail, till she is rescued to liberty 
and life. 

Wrapt in the deep earnest might of prayer, the boy re- 
mained kneeling, with clasped hands, and eyes fixed on the 
Virgin’s sculptured face, his spirit inwardly communing, 
long, long after his impassioned vows had sunk in silence; 
the thunder yet rolled fearfully, and the blue lightning 
flashed and played around him with scarce a minute’s inter- 
mission, but no emotion save that of a son and warrior took 
possession of his soul. He knew a terrific storm was raging 
round him, but it drew him not from earthly thoughts and 
earthly feelings, even while it raised his soul in prayer. 
Very different was the effect of this lonely vigil and awful 
night on the imaginative spirit of his companion. 

It was not alone the spirit of chivalry which now burned 
in the noble heart of Nigel Bruce. He was a poet, and the 
glowing hues of poesy invested every emotion of his mind. 
He loved deeply, devotedly; and love, pure, faithful, hope- 
ful love, appeared to have increased every feeling, whether 
of grief or joy, in intensity and depth. He felt too deeply 
to be free from that peculiar whispering within, known by 
the world as presentiment, and as such so often scorned and 
contemned as the mere offspring of weak, superstitious 
minds, when it is in reality one of those distinguishing 
marks of the higher, more ethereal temperament of genius. 

Perchance it is the lively imagination of such minds, 
which in the very midst of joy can so vividly portray and 
realize pain, or it may be, indeed, the mysterious voice 
which links gifted man with a higher class of beings to 


82 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


whom futurity is revealed. Be this as it may, even while 
the youthful patriot beheld with a visioned eye the liberty 
of his country, and rejoiced in thus beholding, there ever 
came a dim and silent shadowing, a whispering voice, that 
he should indeed behold it, but not from earth. When the 
devoted brother and loyal subject pictured his sovereign in 
very truth a free and honored king, his throne surrounded 
by nobles and knights of his own free land, and many oth- 
ers, the enthusiast saw not himself among them, and yet, 
he rejoiced in the faith such things would be. When the 
young and ardent lover sate by the side of his betrothed, 
gazing on her sweet face, and drinking in deeply the gush- 
ing tide of joy; when his spirit pictured yet dearer, 
lovelier, more assured bliss, when Agnes would be in very 
truth his own, still did that strange thrilling whisper come, 
and promise he should indeed experience such bliss, but 
not on earth; and yet he loved, aye, and rejoiced, and there 
came not one shadow on his bright, beautiful face, not one 
sad echo in the rich, deep tones of his melodious voice to 
betray such dim forebodings had found resting in his soul. 

Already excited by his conversation with Agnes, the 
service in which he found himself engaged was not such 
as to tranquillize his spirit, or still his full heart’s quivering 
throb. His imaginative soul had already flung its halo over 
the solemn rites which attended his inauguration as a 
knight. Even to less enthusiastic spirits there was a glow, 
a glory in this ceremony which seldom failed to awake the 
soul, and inspire it with high and noble sentiments. It 
was not therefore strange that these emotions should in the 
heart of Nigel Bruce obtain that ascendency, which to sen- 
sitive minds must become pain. Had it been a night of 
calm and holy stillness, he would in all probability have felt 
its soothing effect; but as it was, every pulse throbbed and 
every nerve was strained ’neath his strong sense of the sub- 
lime. He could not be said to think, although he had 
struggled long and fiercely to compose his mind for those 
devotional exercises he deemed most fitted for the hour. 
Feeling alone possessed him, overwhelming, indefinable; he 
deemed it admiration, awe, adoration of Him at whose nod 
the mighty thunders rolled and the destructive lightnings 
flashed, but he could not define it such. He did not dream 
of earth, not even the form of Agnes flashed, as was its 
wont, before him; no, it was of scenes and sounds un- 
dreamed of in earth’s philosophy he thought; and as he 
gazed on the impenetrable darkness, and then beheld it dis- 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


83 


persed by the repeated lightning, his excited fancy almost 
believed that he should see it peopled by the spirits of the 
mighty dead which slept within those walls, and no particle 
of terror attended this belief. In the weak superstition of 
his age, Nigel Bruce had never shared, but firmly and stead- 
fastly he believed, even in his calm and unexcited moments, 
that there was a link between the living and the dead; that 
the freed spirits of the one were permitted to hold commune 
with the other, not in visible shape, but in those thrilling 
whispers which the spirit knows, while yet it would deny 
them even to itself. It was the very age of superstition; 
religion itself was clothed in a veil of solemn mystery, 
which to minds constituted as Nigel’s gave it a deeper, more 
impressive tone. Its ceremonies, its shrines, its fictions, 
all gave fresh zest to the imagination, and filled the heart 
of its votary with a species of devotion and excitement, 
which would now be considered as mere visionary madness, 
little in accordance with the true spirit of piety or accept- 
able to the Most High, but which was then regarded as 
meritorious; and even as we look back upon the saints and 
heroes of the past, even now should not be condemned ; for, 
according to the light bestowed, so is devotion demanded 
and accepted by the God of all. 

Nigel Bruce had paused in his hasty walk, and leaning 
against the pillar round which his armor hung, fixed his 
eyes for a space on the large oriel window we have named, 
whose outline was but faintly discernible, save on the left 
side, which was dimly illumined by the silver lamp burning 
in the shrine of St. Stephen, close beside which the youth- 
ful warrior stood. The storm had suddenly sunk into an 
awful and almost portentous silence; and in that brief in- 
terval of stillness and gloom, Nigel felt his blood flow more 
calmly in his veins, his pulses stilled their starting throbs, 
and the young soldier crossed his arms on his breast, and 
bent his uncovered head upon them in silent yet earnest 
prayer. 

The deep, solemn chime of the abbey-bell, echoing like a 
spirit-voice through the arched and silent church, roused 
him, and he looked up. At the same moment a strong and 
awfully brilliant flash of lightning darted through the win- 
dow on which his eyes were fixed, followed by a mighty 
peal of thunder, longer and louder than any that had come 
before. For above a minute that blue flash lingered play- 
ing, it seemed, on steel, and a cold shuddering thrill crept 
through the frame of Nigel Bruce, sending the life-blood 


84 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


from his cheek back to his very heart, for either fancy had 
again assumed her sway, and more vividly than before, or 
his wild thoughts had found a shape and semblance. With- 
in the arch formed by the high window stood or seemed to 
stand a tall and knightly form, clad from the gorget to the 
heel in polished steel; his head was bare, and long, dark 
hair shaded a face pale and shadowy indeed, but strikingly 
and eminently noble; there was a scarf across his breast, 
and on it Nigel recognized the cognizance of his own line, 
the crest and motto of the Bruce. It could not have been 
more than a minute that the blue lightning lingered there, 
yet to his excited spirit it was long enough to impress in- 
delibly and startlingly every trace of that strange vision 
upon his heart. The face was turned to his, with a solemn 
yet sorrowful earnestness of expression, and the mailed 
hand raised on high, seemed pointing unto heaven. The 
flash passed and all was darkness, the more dense and im- 
penetrable, from the vivid light which had preceded it ; but 
Nigel stirred not, moved not, his every sense absorbed, not 
in the weakness of mortal terror, but in one overwhelming 
sensation of awe, which, while it oppressed the spirit well- 
nigh to pain, caused it to long with an almost sickening in- 
tensity for a longer and clearer view of that which had come 
and passed with the lightning flash. Again the vivid blaze 
dispersed the gloom, but no shadow met his fixed impas- 
sioned gaze. Vision or reality, the form was gone; there 
was no trace, no sign of that which had been. For several 
successive flashes Nigel remained gazing on the spot where 
the mailed form had stood, as if he felt it would, it must 
again appear; but as time sped, and he saw but space, the 
soul relaxed from its high-wrought mood, the blood, which 
had seemed stagnant in his veins, rushed back tumultuously 
through its varied channels, and Nigel Bruce prostrated 
himself before the altar, to wrestle with his perturbed spirit 
till it found calm in prayer. 

A right noble and glorious scene did the great hall of the 
palace present the morning which followed this eventful 
night. The king, surrounded by his highest prelates and 
nobles, mingling indiscriminately with the high-born dames 
and maidens of his court, all splendidly attired, occupied 
the upper part of the hall, the rest of which was crowded 
both by his military followers and many of the good citizens 
of Scone, who flocked in great numbers to behold the august 
ceremony of the day. Two immense oaken doors at the 
south side of the hall were flung open, and through them 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


85 


was discerned the large space forming the palace yard, pre- 
pared as a tilting-ground, where the new-made knights were 
to prove their skill. The storm had given place to a soft 
breezy morning, the cool freshness of which appearing pe- 
culiarly grateful from the oppressiveness of the night ; light 
downy clouds sailed over the blue expanse of heaven, tem- 
pering without clouding the brilliant rays of the sun. 
Every face was clothed with smiles, and the loud shouts 
which hailed the youthful candidates for knighthood, as 
they severally entered, told well the feeling with which the 
patriots of Scotland were regarded. 

Some twenty youths received the envied honor at the 
hand of their sovereign this day, but our limits forbid a 
minute scrutiny of the bearing of any, however well de- 
serving, save of the two whose vigils have already detained 
us so long. A yet longer and louder shout proclaimed the 
appearance of the youngest scion of the house of Bruce, and 
his companion. The daring patriotism of Isabella of Buch- 
an had enshrined her in every heart, and so disposed all 
men toward her children, that the name of their traitorous 
father was forgotten. 

Led by their godfathers, Nigel by his brother-in-law, Sir 
Christopher Seaton, and Alan by the Earl of Lennox, their 
swords, which had been blessed by the abbot at the altar, 
slung round their necks, they advanced up the hall. There 
was a glow on the cheek of the young Alan, in which pride 
and modesty were mingled; his step at first was unsteady, 
and his lip was seen to quiver from very bashfulness, as he 
first glanced round the hall and felt that every eye was 
turned toward him; but when that glance met his mother’s 
fixed on him, and breathing that might of love which filled 
her heart, all boyish tremors fled, the calm, staid resolve of 
manhood took the place of the varying glow upon his cheek, 
the quivering lip became compressed and firm, and his step 
faltered not again. 

The cheek of Nigel Bruce was pale, but there was firm- 
ness in the glance of his bright eye, and a smile unclouded 
in its joyance on his lip. The frivolous lightness of the 
courtier, the mad bravado of knight-errantry, which was not 
uncommon to the times, indeed, were not there. It was the 
quiet courage of the resolved warrior, the calm of a spirit 
at peace with itself, shedding its own high feeling and 
poetic glory over all around him. 

On reaching the foot of King Robert’s throne, both 
youths knelt and laid their sheathed swords at his feet. 


86 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


Their armor-bearers then approached, and the ceremony of 
clothing the candidates in steel commenced; the golden 
spur was fastened on the left foot of each by his respective 
godfather, while Athol, Hay, and other nobles advanced to 
do honor to the youths, by aiding in the ceremony. Nor 
was it w T arriors alone. 

“ Is this permitted, lady ? ” demanded the king, smiling, 
as the Countess of Buchan approaching the martial group, 
and, aided by Lennox, fastened the polished cuirass on the 
form of her son. “ Is it permitted for a matron to arm a 
youthful knight? Is there no maiden to do such inspiring 
office ? ” 

“ Yes, when the knight be one as this, my liege,” she an- 
swered, in the same tone ; “ let a matron arm him, good my 
liege,” she added, sadly — “ let a mother’s hand enwrap his 
boyish limbs in steel, a mother’s blessing mark him thine 
and Scotland’s, that those who watch his bearing in the 
battle-field may know wdio sent him there, may thrill his 
heart with memories of her who stands alone of her an- 
cestral line, that though he bears the name of Comyn, the 
blood of Fife flows reddest in his veins.” 

“ Arm him and welcome, noble lady,” answered the king, 
and a buzz of approbation ran through the hall ; “ and may 
thy noble spirit and dauntless loyalty inspire him; we shall 
not need a trusty follower while such as he are round us. 
Yet, in very deed, my youthful knight must have a lady fair 
for whom he tilts to-day. Come hither, Isoline ; thou look- 
est verily inclined to envy thy sweet friend her office, and 
nothing loth to have a loyal knight thyself. Come, come, 
my pretty one, no blushing now. Lennox, guide those tiny 
hands aright.” 

Laughing and blushing, Isoline, the daughter of Lady 
Campbell, a sister of the Bruce, a graceful child of some 
thirteen summers, advanced, nothing loth, to obey her royal 
uncle’s summons, and an arch smile of real enjoyment irre- 
sistibly stole over the countenance of Alan, dispersing the 
emotion his mother’s words produced. 

“ Nay, tremble not, sweet one,” the king continued in a 
lower and yet kinder tone, as he turned from the one 
youth to the other, and observed that Agnes, overpowered 
by emotion, had scarcely power to perform her part, despite 
the whispered words of encouraging affection Nigel mur- 
mured in her ear. Imaginative to a degree, which, by her 
quiet, subdued manners, was never suspected, the simple act 
of those early flowers withering in her grasp, fresh as they 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


87 

were from the hand of her betrothed, had weighed down her 
spirits as with an indefinable sense of pain, which she could 
not combat. The war of the elements, attending as it did 
the vigil of her lover, had not decreased these feelings, and 
the morning found her dispirited and shrinking in sen- 
sitiveness from the very scene she had anticipated with joy. 

“ It must not be with a trembling hand the betrothed of 
a Bruce arms her chosen knight, fair Agnes,” continued the 
king, cheeringly. “ She must inspire him with valor and 
confidence. Smile, then, gentlest and loveliest; we would 
have all smiles to-day.” 

And she did smile, but it was a smile of tears, gleam- 
ing on her beautiful face as a sunny beam through a glis- 
tening spray. One by one the cuirass and shoulder-pieces, 
the greaves and gauntlets, the gorget and brassards, the 
joints of which were so beautifully burnished that they 
shone as mirrors, and so flexible every limb had its free use, 
enveloped those manly forms. Their swords once again 
girt to their sides, and once more kneeling, the king de- 
scended from his throne, and alternately dubbed them 
knight in the name of God, St. Michael, and St. George. 

“ Be faithful, brave, and hardy, youthful cavaliers,” he 
said ; “ true to the country which claims ye, to the mon- 
arch ye have sworn to serve, to the knight from whose sword 
ye have received the honor ye have craved. Remember, ’tis 
not the tourney nor the tilted field in which ye will gain 
renown. For your country let your swords be drawn; 
against her foes reap laurels. Sir Nigel, ’tis thine to retain 
unsullied the name thou bearest, to let the Bruce be glori- 
fied in thee. And thou, Sir Alan, ’tis thine to earn a name 
— in very truth, to win thy golden spurs ; to prove we do no 
unwise deed, forgetting thy early years, to do honor to thy 
mother’s son.” 

Lightly and eagerly the new-made knights sprung to 
their feet, the very clang of their glittering armor ringing 
gratefully and rejoicingly in their ears. Their gallant 
steeds, barded and richly caparisoned, held by their esquires, 
stood neighing and pawing at the foot of the steps leading 
from the oaken doors. 

Without touching the stirrup, both sprung at the same 
instant in their saddles; the helmet, with its long graceful 
plume, was quickly donned; the lance and shield received; 
the pennon adorning the iron head of each lowered a mo- 
ment in honor to their sovereign, then waved gayly in air. 
and then each lance was laid in rest; a trumpet sounded, 


88 


THE DAYS OF BKUCE. 


and onward darted the fiery youths thrice round the lists, 
displaying a skill and courage in horsemanship which was 
hailed with repeated shouts of applause. But on the tour- 
ney and the banquet which succeeded the ceremony we have 
described we may not linger, but pass rapidly on to a later 
period of the same evening. 

Sir Nigel and his beautiful betrothed had withdrawn a 
while from the glittering scene around them; they had 
done their part in the graceful dance, and now they sought 
the comparative solitude and stillness of the flower-gemmed 
terrace, on which the ball-room opened, to speak unre- 
servedly the thoughts which had filled each heart; per- 
chance there were some yet veiled, for the vision of the 
preceding night, the strange, incongruous fancies it had 
engendered in the youthful warrior, a solemn vow had 
buried deep in his own soul, and not even to Agnes, to 
whom his heart was wont to be revealed, might such 
thoughts find words ; and she shrunk in timidity from avow- 
ing the inquietude of her own simple heart, and thus it was 
that each, for the sake of the other, spoke hopefully and 
cheeringly, and gayly, until at length they were but con- 
scious of mutual and devoted love — the darkening mists of 
the future lost in the radiance of the present sun. 

A sudden pause in the inspiring music, the quick ad- 
vance of all the different groups toward one particular spot, 
had failed perchance to interrupt the happy converse of the 
lovers, had not Sir Alan hastily approached them, exclaim- 
ing, as he did so : 

“For the love of Heaven! Nigel, forget Agnes for one 
moment, and come along with me. A messenger from 
Pembroke has just arrived, bearing a challenge, or some- 
thing very like it, to his grace the king; and it may be 
we shall win our spurs sooner than we looked for this morn- 
ing. The sight of Sir Henry Seymour makes the war 
trumpet sound in mine ears. Come, for truly there is some- 
thing astir.” 

With Agnes still leaning on his arm, Nigel obeyed the 
summons of his impatient friend, and joined the group 
around the king. There was a quiet dignity in the attitude 
and aspect of Bobert Bruce, or it might be the daring pa- 
triotism of his enterprise was appreciated by the gallant 
English knight; certain it was that, though Sir Henry’s 
bearing had been somewhat haughty, his brow knit, and his 
head still covered, as he passed up the hall, by an irresistible 
impulse he doffed his helmet as he met the eagle glance of 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


89 


the Bruce, and bowed his head respectfully before him, an 
example instantly followed by his attendants. 

“ Sir Henry Seymour is welcome to our court,” said the 
king, courteously; “ welcome, whatever message he may 
bear. How fares it with the chivalric knight and worthy 
gentleman, Aymer de Valence, Earl of Pembroke? Ye 
bring us a message from him, ’tis said. Heeds it a private 
hearing, sir knight ? if so, we are at your service ; yet little 
is it Aymer de Valence can say to Scotland’s king which 
Scotland may not hear.” 

“ Pembroke is well, an please you, and sendeth greeting,” 
replied the knight. “ His message, sent as it is to the 
Bruce, is well fitted for the ears of his followers, therefore 
may it be spoken here. He sendeth all loving and knightly 
greeting unto him known until now as Bobert Earl of Car- 
rick, and bids him, an he would proclaim and prove the 
rights he hath assumed, come forth from the narrow pre- 
cincts of a palace and town, which ill befit a warrior of such 
high renown, and give him battle in the Park of Methven, 
near at hand. He challenges him to meet him there, with 
nobles, knights, and yeomen, who proclaiming Bobert Bruce 
their sovereign, cast down the gauntlet of defiance and re- 
bellion against their rightful king and mine, his grace of 
England; he challenges thee, sir knight, or earl, or king, 
whichever name thou bearest, and dares thee to the field.” 

“ And what if we accept not his daring challenge ? ” de- 
manded King Bobert, sternly, without permitting the ex- 
pression of his countenance to satisfy in any way the many 
anxious glances fixed upon it. 

“ He will proclaim thee coward knight and traitor slave,” 
boldly answered Sir Henry. “ In camp or in hall, in lady’s 
bower or tented field, he will proclaim thee recreant; one 
that took upon himself the state and pomp of royalty with- 
out the spirit to defend and prove it.” 

“ Had he done so by our predecessor, Baliol, he had done 
well,” returned the king, calmly. “ Hobles, and knights, 
and gentlemen,” he added, the lion spirit of his race kin- 
dling in his eye and cheek, “ what say ye in accepting the 
bold challenge of this courtly earl? Do we not read your 
hearts as well as our own? Ye have chafed and fretted that 
we have retained ye so long inactive: in very truth your 
monarch’s spirit chafed and fretted too. We will do battle 
with this knightly foe, and give him, in all chivalric and 
honorable courtesy, the meeting he desires.” 

One startling and energetic shout burst simultaneously 


90 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


from the warriors around, forming a wild and thrilling re- 
sponse to their sovereign’s words. In vain they sought to 
restrain that outbreak of rejoicing, in respect to the royal 
presence; they had pined, they had yearned for action, and 
Sir Henry was too good a knight himself not to understand 
to the full the patriotic fervor and chivalrous spirit from 
wdiich that shout had sprung. Proudly and joyfully the 
Bruce looked on his devoted adherents, and then addressed 
the English knight. 

“ Thou hast our answer, good Sir Henry,” he said ; 
“ more thou couldst scarcely need. Commend us to your 
master, and take heed thou sayest all that thou hast heard 
and seen in answer to his challenge. In the Park of Meth- 
ven, three days hence, he may expect the King of Scotland 
and his patriot troops with him, to do battle unto death. 
Edward, good brother, thou, Seaton, and the Lord of Doug- 
las, conduct this worthy knight in all honor from the hall. 
Thou hast our answer.” 

The knight bowed low, but ere he retreated he spoke 
again. “ I am charged with yet another matter, an it so 
please you,” he said, evidently studying to avoid all royal 
titles, although the bearing of the king rendered his task 
rather more difficult than he could have imagined ; “ a mat- 
ter of small import, truly, yet must it be spoken. ’Tis ru- 
mored that you have amid your household a child, a boy, 
whose father was a favored servant of my gracious liege 
and yours, King Edward. The Earl of Pembroke, in the 
name of his sovereign and of the child’s father, bids me de- 
mand him of thee, as having, from his tender years and in- 
experience, no will nor voice in this matter, he having been 
brought here by his mother, who, saving your presence, had 
done better to have remembered her duty to her husband 
than encourage rebellion against her king.” 

“ Keep to the import of thy message, nor give thy tongue 
such license, sir,” interrupted the Bruce, sternly ; and many 
an eye flashed, and many a hand sought his sword. “ Sir 
Alan of Buchan, stand forth and give thine own answer to 
this imperative demand; ’tis to thee, methinks* its import 
would refer. Thou hast wisdom and experience, if not 
years enough, to answer for thyself.” 

“ Tell Aymer de Valence, would he seek me, he will find 
me by the side of my sovereign King Bobert, in Methven 
Park, three days hence,” boldly and quickly answered the 
young soldier, stepping forward from his post in the circle, 
and fronting the knight. “ Tell him I am here of my own 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


91 


free will, to acknowledge Robert the Bruce as mine and 
Scotland’s king; to defy the tyrant Edward, even to the 
death; tell him ’tis no child he seeks, but a knight and sol- 
dier, who will meet him on the field.” 

“ It would seem we are under some mistake, young sir,” 
replied Sir Henry, gazing with unfeigned admiration on 
the well-knit frame and glowing features of the youthful 
knight. “ I speak of and demand the surrender of the son 
and heir of John Comyn, Earl of Buchan, who was repre- 
sented to me as a child of some ten or thirteen summers; 
’tis with him, not with thee, my business treats.” 

“ And ’tis the son — I know not how long heir — of John 
Comyn, Earl of Buchan, who speaks with thee, sir knight. 
It may well be, my very age, my very existence hath been 
forgotten by my father,” he added, with a fierceness and 
bitterness little in accord with his years, “ aye, and would 
have been remembered no more, had not the late events re- 
called them; yet ’tis even so — and that thy memory prove 
not treacherous, there lies my gage. Foully and falsely 
hast thou spoken of Isabella of Buchan, and her honor is 
as dear to her son as is his own. In Methven Park we two 
shall meet, sir knight, and the child, the puny stripling, who 
hath of his own nor voice nor will, will not fail thee, be 
thou sure.” 

Proudly, almost sternly, the boy fixed his flashing orbs 
on the English knight, and without removing his glance, 
strode to the $ide of his mother and drew her arm within his 
ow r n. There was something in the accent, in the saddened 
yet resolute expression of his countenance, which forbade 
all rejoinder, not from Sir Henry alone, but even from his 
own friends. Seymour raised the gage, and with a mean- 
ing smile secured it in his helmet; then respectfully sa- 
luting the group around him, withdrew, attended as desired 
by the Bruce. 

“ Heed it not, my boy, my own noble boy ! ” said the 
Countess of Buchan, in those low, earnest, musical tones 
peculiarly her own;* for she saw that there was a quivering 
in the lip, a sudden paleness in the cheek of her son, as he 
gazed up in her face, when he thought they stood alone, 
which denoted internal emotion yet stronger than that 
which had inspired his previous words. “ Their scorn, their 
contumely, I heed as little as the mountain rock the hail- 
stones which fall upon* its sides, in vain seeking to penetrate 
or wound. Hay, I could smile at them in very truth, were 
it not that compelled as I am to act alone, to throw aside 
7 


92 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


as worthless and rejected those natural ties I had so joyed to 
wear, my heart seems closed to smiles; but for words as 
those, or yet harsher scorn, grieve not, my noble boy, they 
have no power to fret or hurt me.” 

“ Yet to hear them speak in such tone of thee — thee, 
whose high soul and noble courage would shame a score of 
some who write themselves men! — thee, who with all a 
woman’s loving heart, and guileless, unselfish, honorable 
mind, hath all a warrior’s stern resolve, a patriot’s noble pur- 
pose! Mother, mother, how may thy son brook scorn and 
falsity, and foul calumny cast upon thee ? ” and there was 
a choking suffocation in his throat, filling his eyes perforce 
with tears ; and had it not been that manhood struggled for 
dominion, he would have flung himself upon his mother’s 
breast and wept. 

“ As a soldier and a man, my son,” she drew him closer 
to her as she spoke ; “ as one who, knowing and feeling the 
worth of the contemned one, is conscious that the foul 
tongues of evil men can do no ill, but fling back the shame 
upon themselves. Arouse thee, my beloved son. Alas ! when 
I look on thee, on thy bright face, on those graceful limbs, 
so supple now in health and life, and feel to what my deed 
may have devoted thee, my child, my child, I need not slan- 
derous tongues to grieve me ! ” 

“ And doth the Countess of Buchan repent that deed ? ” 
asked the rich sonorous voice of the Bruce, who, unob- 
served, had heard their converse. “ Would she recall that 
which she hath done ? ” 

“ Sire, not so,” she answered ; “ precious as is my child 
to this lone heart — inexpressibly dear and precious — yet if 
the liberty of his country demand me to resign him, the call 
shall be obeyed.” 

“ Speak not thus, noble lady,” returned the king, cheer- 
ily. “ He is but lent , Scotland asks no more ; and when 
heaven smiles on this poor country, smiles in liberty and 
peace, trust me, such devotedness will not have been in vain. 
Our youthful knight will lay many a wreath of laurel at 
his mother’s feet, nor will there then be need to guard her 
name from scorn. See what new zest and spirit have irra- 
diated the brows of our warlike guests; we had scarce 
deemed more needed than was there before, yet the visit of 
Sir Henry Seymour, bearing as it did a challenge to strife 
and blood, hath given fresh lightness to every step, new joy- 
ousness to every tone. Is not this as it should be ? ” 

“ Aye, as it must be, sire, while loyal hearts and patriot 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


93 


spirits form thy court. Nobly and gallantly was the answer 
given to Pembroke’s challenge. Yet, pardon me, sire, was 
it wise — was it well ? ” 

“ Its wisdom, lady, rests with its success in the hands 
of a higher power,” answered the king, gravely, yet kindly. 
“ Other than we did we could not do ; rashly and pre- 
sumptuously we would not have left our quarters. Not for 
the mere chase of, mad wish for glory would we have risked 
the precious lives of our few devoted friends, but challenged 
as we were, the soul of Bruce could not have spoken other 
than he did; nor do we repent, nay, we rejoice that the 
stern duty of inaction is over. Thine eye tells me thou 
canst understand this, lady, therefore we say no more, save 
to beseech thee to inspire our consort with the necessity of 
this deed; she trembles for the issue of our daring. See 
how grave and sad she looks, so lately as she was all smiles.” 

The countess did not reply, but hastened to the side of 
the amiable, but yet too womanly Queen Margaret, and gen- 
tly, but invisibly sought to soothe her fears; and she par- 
tially succeeded, for the queen ever seemed to feel herself a 
bolder and firmer character when in the presence and under 
the influence of Isabella of Buchan. 


CHAPTER X. 

It was a gallant, though, alas! but too small a force 
which, richly and bravely accoutred, with banners proudly 
flying, music sounding, superb chargers caparisoned for war, 
lances in rest, and spear and bill, sword and battle-axe, 
marched through the olden gates of Scone in a south-west- 
ward direction, early on the morning of the 25th of June, 
1306. Many were the admiring eyes and yearning hearts 
which followed them, and if doubt and dread did mingle in 
the fervid aspirations raised for their welfare and success, 
they were not permitted to gain ascendency so long as the 
cheering tones and happy smiles of every one of that patriot 
band lingered on the ear and sight. As yet there were but 
few of the nobles and knights with their men. The troops 
had been commanded to march leisurely forward, under 
charge of the esquires and gentlemen, who were mostly 
lieutenants or cornets to their leaders’ respective bands of 


94 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


followers; and, if not overtaken before, to halt in a large 
meadow to the north of Perth, which lay in their way. 

The knots of citizens, however, who had accompanied 
the army to the farthest environs of the town, had not dis- 
persed to their several homes ere the quick, noisy clattering 
of a gallant troop of horse echoed along the street, and the 
king, surrounded by his highest nobles and bravest knights, 
galloped by, courteously returning the shouts and acclama- 
tions of delight which hailed him on every side. His visor 
was purposely left up, and his noble countenance, beaming 
with animation and hope, seemed to inspire fresh hope and 
confidence in all that gazed. A white ostrich plume, se- 
cured to his helmet by a rich clasp of pearls and diamonds, 
fell over his left shoulder till it well-nigh mingled with the 
flowing mane of his charger, whose coal-black glossy hide 
was almost concealed beneath the armor which enveloped 
him, and the saddle-cloth of crimson velvet, whose golden 
fringe nearly swept the ground. King Robert was clothed 
in the same superb suit of polished steel armor, inlaid and 
curiously wrought with ingrained silver, in which we saw 
him at first; a crimson scarf secured his trusty sword to 
his side, and a short mantle of azure velvet, embroidered 
with the golden thistle of Scotland, and lined with the rich- 
est sable, was secured at his throat by a splendid collaret of 
gems. The costly materials of his dress, and, yet more, the 
easy and graceful seat upon his charger, his chivalric bear- 
ing, and the frank, noble expression of his countenance, 
made him, indeed, “ look every inch a king,” and might well 
of themselves have inspired and retained the devoted loyalty 
of his subjects, even had there been less of chivalry in his 
daring rising. 

Edward Bruce was close beside his brother. With a 
figure and appearance equally martial and equally prepos- 
sessing, he wanted the quiet dignity, the self-possession of 
voice and feature which characterized the king. He had not 
the mind of Robert, and consequently the uppermost pas- 
sion of the spirit was ever the one marked on his brow. 
On this morning he was all animated smiles, for war was 
alike his vocation and his pastime. 

Thomas and Alexander Bruce were also there, both gal- 
lant men and well-tried warriors, and eager as Edward for 
close encounter with the foe. The Earls of Lennox and 
Athol, although perhaps in their secret souls they felt that 
the enterprise was rash, gave no evidence of reluctance in 
their noble bearing ; indeed, had they been certain of march- 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


95 


ing to their death, they would not have turned from the 
side of Bruce. The broad banner of Scotland, whose ample 
folds waved in the morning breeze, had been intrusted to 
the young heir of Buchan, who, with the other young and 
new-made knights, eager and zealous to win their spurs, 
had formed a body guard around the banner, swearing to 
defend it to the last moment of their lives. Nigel Bruce 
was one of these; he rode close beside his brother in arms, 
and midst that animated group, those eager spirits throb- 
bing for action, no heart beat quicker than his own. All 
was animated life, anticipated victory; the very heavens 
smiled as if they would shed no shadow on this patriot 
band. 

It was scarcely two hours after noon when King Robert 
and his troops arrived at the post assigned — the park or 
wood of Methven ; and believing that it was not till the suc- 
ceeding day to which the challenge of Pembroke referred, 
he commanded his men to make every preparation for a 
night encampment. The English troops lay at about a 
quarter of a mile distant, on the side of a hill, which, as 
well as tree and furze would permit, commended a view of 
the Bruce’s movements. There were tents erected, horses 
picketed, and every appearance of quiet, confirming the 
Scotch in their idea of no engagement taking place till the 
morrow. 

Aware of the great disparity of numbers, King Robert 
eagerly and anxiously examined his ground as to the best 
spot for awaiting the attack of the English. He fixed on 
a level green about half a mile square, guarded on two sides 
by a thick wood of trees, on the third and left by a deep 
running rivulet, and open on the fourth, encumbered only 
by short, thick bushes and little knots of thorn, which the 
king welcomed, as impeding the progress and obstructing 
the evolutions of Pembroke’s horse. The bushes which 
were scattered about on the ground he had chosen, he de- 
sired his men to clear away, and ere the sun neared his 
setting, all he wished was accomplished, and his plan of bat- 
tle arranged. He well remembered the impenetrable phalanx 
of the unfortunate Wallace at the battle of Falkirk, and de- 
termined on exposing a steady front of spears in the same 
manner. Not having above thirty horse on whom he could 
depend, and well aware they would be but a handful against 
Pembroke’s two hundred, he placed them in the rear as a re- 
serve, in the centre of which waved the banner of Scotland. 
The remainder of his troops he determined on arranging in 


96 


THE DAYS OF BKUCE. 


a compact crescent, the bow exposed to the English, the 
line stretching out against the wood. This was his in- 
tended line of battle, but, either from mistake or purposed 
treachery on the part of Pembroke, his plan was frustrated, 
and in addition to the great disparity of numbers he had 
to struggle with surprise. The day had been extremely 
sultry, and trusting in full confidence to the honor of his 
opponent, and willing to give his men all needful rest, the 
king dismissed them from their ranks to refreshment and 
repose, leaving but very few to guard, himself retiring with 
his older officers to a tent prepared for his reception. 

Arm in arm, and deep in converse, Nigel Bruce and 
Alan of Buchan wandered a little apart from their com- 
panions, preferring a hasty meal and the calm beauty of a 
lovely summer evening, accompanied by a refreshing breeze, 
to remaining beside the rude but welcome meal, and shar- 
ing the festivity which enlivened it. 

“ Thinkest thou not, Nigel, his grace trusts but too 
fully to the honor of these Englishmen ? ” asked Alan, 
somewhat abruptly, turning the conversation from the 
dearer topics of Agnes and her mother, which had before 
engrossed them. 

“ On my faith, if he judge of them by his own true, 
noble spirit, he judges them too well.” 

“ Nay, thou art over-suspicious, friend Alan,” answered 
Nigel, smiling. “ What fearest thou? ” 

“ I like not the absence of all guards, not so much for 
the safety of our own camp, but to keep sharp watch on the 
movements of our friends yonder. Nigel, there is some 
movement ; they look not as they did an hour ago.” 

“ Impossible, quite impossible, Alan ; the English 
knights are too chivalric, too honorable, to advance on us 
to-night. If they have made a movement, ’tis but to re- 
pose.” 

“ Nigel, if Pembroke feel inclined to take advantage of 
our unguarded situation, he will swear, as many have done 
before him, that a new day began with the twelve-chime bell 
of this morning, and be upon us ere we are aware; and I 
say again, there is movement, and warlike movement, too, 
in yonder army. Are tents deserted, and horses and men 
collected, for the simple purpose of retiring to rest ? Come 
with me to yon mound, and see if I be not correct in my 
surmise.” 

Startled by Alan’s earnest manner, despite his firm re- 
liance on Pembroke’s honor, Nigel made no further ob- 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


97 


jection/but hastened with him to the eminence he named. 
It was only too true. Silently and guardedly the whole 
English army, extending much further toward Perth than 
was visible to the Scotch, had been formed in battle array, 
line after line stretching forth its glittering files, in too 
compact and animated array to admit of a doubt as to their 
intentions. The sun had completely sunk, and dim mists 
were spreading up higher and higher from the horizon, 
greatly aiding the treacherous movements of the English. 

“ By Heavens, ’tis but too true ! ” burst impetuously 
from Nigel’s lips, indignation expressed in every feature. 
“ Base, treacherous cowards ! Hie thee to the king — fly for 
thy life — give him warning, while I endeavor to form the 
lines. In vain, utterly in vain ! ” he muttered, as Alan 
with the speed of lightning darted down the slope. “ They 
are formed — fresh, both man and horse — double, aye, more 
than treble our numbers ; they will be upon us ere the order 
of battle can be formed, and defeat now ” 

He would not give utterance to the dispiriting truth 
which closed that thought, but springing forward, dashed 
through fern and brake, and halted not till he stood in the 
centre of his companions, who, scattered in various atti- 
tudes on the grass, were giving vent, in snatches of song 
and joyous laughter, to the glee which filled their souls. 

“ Up ! up ! — the foe ! ” shouted Nigel, in tones so unlike 
the silvery accents which in general characterized him, that 
his companions started to their feet and grasped their 
swords, as roused by the sound of trumpet. “ Pembroke is 
false: to arms — to your posts! Fitz-Alan — Douglas — 
sound an alarm, and, in Heaven’s name, aid me in getting 
the men under arms! Be calm, be steady; display no 
alarm, no confusion, and all may yet be well.” 

He was obeyed. The quick roll of the drum, the sharp, 
quick blast of the trumpet echoed and re-echoed at different 
sides of the encampment ; the call to arms, in various sten- 
torian tones, rung through the woodland glades, quickly 
banishing all other sounds. Every man sprung at once 
from his posture of repose, and gathered round their re- 
spective leaders; startled, confused, yet still in order, still 
animated, still confident, and yet more exasperated against 
their foe. 

The appearance of their sovereign, unchanged in his 
composed and warlike mien, evincing perhaps yet more ani- 
mation in his darkly flushing cheek, compressed lip, and 
sparkling eye; his voice still calm, though his commands 


98 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


were more than usually hurried; his appearance on every 
side, forming, arranging, encouraging, almost at the same 
instant — at one moment exciting their indignation against 
the treachery of the foe, at others appealing to their love 
for their country, their homes, their wives, to their sworn 
loyalty to himself — inspired courage and confidence at the 
same instant as he allayed confusion; but despite every 
effort both of leader and men, it needed time to form in the 
compact order which the king had planned, and ere it was 
accomplished, nearer and nearer came the English, increas- 
ing their pace to a run as they approached, and finally 
charging in full and overwhelming career against the un- 
prepared but gallant Scots. Still there was no wavering 
amid the Scottish troops ; still they stood their ground, and 
forming, almost as they fought, in closer and firmer order, 
exposing the might and unflinching steadiness of desperate 
men, determined on liberty or death, to the greater number 
and better discipline of their foe. It mattered not that the 
fading light of day had given place to the darker shades of 
night, but dimly illumined by the rising moon — they strug- 
gled on, knowing as if by instinct friend from foe. And 
fearful was it to watch the mighty struggles from figures 
gleaming as gigantic shadows in the darkness; now and 
then came a deep smothered cry or bursting groan, wrung 
from the throes of death, or the wild, piercing scream from 
a slaughtered horse, but the tongues of life were silent; 
the clang of armor, the clash of steel, the heavy fall of man 
and horse, indeed came fitfully and fearfully on the night 
breeze, and even as the blue spectral flash of summer 
lightning did the bright swords rise and fall in the thick 
gloom. 

“ Back, back, dishonored knight ! back, recreant 
traitor!” shouted James of Douglas; and his voice was 
heard above the roar of battle, and those near him saw him 
at the same instant spring from his charger, thrust back 
Pembroke and other kinghts who were thronging round 
him, and with unrivalled skill and swiftness aid a tall and 
well-known form to rise and spring on the horse he held 
for him. “ Thinkest thou the sacred person of the King of 
Scotland is for such as thee ? back, I say ! ” And he did 
force him, armed and on horseback as he was, many paces 
back, and Robert Bruce again galloped over the field, bare- 
headed indeed, for his helmet had fallen off in the strife, 
urging, inciting, leading on yet again to the charge. And 
it was in truth as if a superhuman strength and presence 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


99 


had been granted the patriot king that night, for there were 
veteran warriors there, alike English and Scotch, who 
paused even in the work of strife to gaze and tremble. 

Again was he unhorsed, crushed by numbers — one mo- 
ment more and he had fallen into the hands of his foes, and 
Scotland had lain a slave forever at the feet of England; 
but again was relief at hand, and the young Earl of Mar, 
dashing his horse between the prostrate monarch and his 
thronging enemies, laid the foremost, who was his own 
countryman, dead on the field, and remained fighting alone ; 
his single arm dealing deadly blows on every side at the 
same moment until Robert had regained his feet, and, though 
wounded and well-nigh exhausted, turned in fury to the 
rescue of his preserver. It was too late; in an agony of 
spirit no pen can describe, he beheld his faithful and gal- 
lant nephew overpowered by numbers and led off a captive, 
and he stood by, fighting indeed like a lion, dealing death 
wherever his sword fell, but utterly unable to rescue or de- 
fend him. Again his men thronged round him, their rally- 
ing point, their inspiring hope, their guardian spirit ; again 
he was on horseback, and still, still that fearful strife con- 
tinued. Aided by the darkness, the Bruce in his secret soul 
yet encouraged one gleam of hope, yet dreamed of partial 
success, at least of avoiding that almost worse than death, 
a total and irremediable defeat. Alas, had the daylight 
suddenly illumined that scene, he would have felt, have 
seen that hope was void. 

Gallantly, meanwhile, gallantly even as a warrior of a 
hundred fields, had the young heir of Buchan redeemed his 
pledge to his sovereign, and devoted sword and exposed life 
in his cause. The standard of Scotland had never touched 
the ground. Planting it firmly in the earth, he had for a 
while defended it nobly where he stood, curbing alike the 
high spirit of his prancing horse and his own intense long- 
ing to dash forward in the thickest of the fight. He saw 
his companions fall one by one, till he was well-nigh left 
alone. He heard confused cries, as of triumph; he beheld 
above twenty Englishmen dashing toward him, and he felt 
a few brief minutes and his precious charge might be waved 
in scorn as a trophy by the victors; the tide of battle had 
left him for an instant comparatively alone, and in that 
instant his plan was formed. 

“ Strike hard, and fear not ! ” he cried to an old retainer, 
who stirred not from his side ; “ divide this heavy staff, and 
I will yet protect my charge, and thou and I, Donald, will 


100 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


to King Robert’s side; be needs all true men about him 
now.” 

Even as he spoke his command was understood and 
obeyed. One sweep of the stout Highlander’s battle-axe 
severed full four feet of the heavy lance to which the stand- 
ard was attached, and enabled Alan without any incon- 
venience to grasp in his left hand the remainder, from 
which the folds still waved; grasping his sword firmly in 
his right, and giving his horse the rein, shouting, “ Comyn, 
to the rescue ! ” he darted toward the side where the strife 
waxed hottest. 

It was a cry which alike startled friends and foes, for 
that name was known to one party as so connected with 
devoted adherence to Edward, to the other so synonymous 
with treachery, that united as it was with “ to the rescue,” 
some there were who paused to see whence and from whom 
it came. The banner of Scotland quickly banished doubt 
as to which party that youthful warrior belonged; knights 
and yeomen alike threw themselves in his path to obtain 
possession of so dear a prize. Followed by about ten 
stalwart men of his clan, the young knight gallantly cut 
his way through the greater number of his opponents, 
but a sudden gleam of one of them caused him to halt sud- 
denly. 

“ Ha ! Sir Henry Seymour, we have met at length ! ” 
he shouted. “ Thou bearest yet my gage — ’tis well. I am 
here to redeem it.” 

“ Give up that banner to a follower, then,” returned Sir 
Henry, courteously, checking his horse in its full career, 
“ for otherwise we meet at odds. Thou canst not redeem 
thy gage, and defend thy charge at the same moment.” 

“Give up my charge! Never, so help me Heaven! 
Friend or foe shall claim it but with my life,” returned 
Alan, proudly. “ Come on, sir knight ; I am here to de- 
fend the honor thou hast injured — the honor of one dearer 
than my own.” 

“ Have then thy will, proud boy : thy blood be on thine 
own head,” replied Seymour; but ere he spurred on to the 
charge, he called aloud, “ let none come between us, none 
dare to interfere — ’tis a quarrel touching none save our- 
selves,” and Alan bowed his head, in courteous recognition 
of the strict observance of the rules of chivalry in his ad- 
versary, at the very moment that he closed with him in 
deadly strife; and such was war in the age of chivalry, and 
so strict were its rules, that even with the standard of 




THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


101 


Scotland in his hand, the person of the heir of Buchan was 
sacred to all save to his particular opponent. 

It was a brief yet determined struggle. Their swords 
crossed and recrossed with such force and rapidity, that 
sparks of fire flashed from the blades; the aim of both ap- 
peared rather to unhorse and disarm than slay: Seymour, 
perhaps, from admiration of the boy’s extraordinary bravery 
and daring, and Alan from a feeling of respect for the true 
chivalry of the English knight. The rush of battle for a 
minute unavoidably separated them. About four feet of 
the banner-staff yet remained uninjured, both in its stout 
wood and sharp iron head; with unparalleled swiftness, 
Alan partly furled the banner round the pike, and trans- 
ferred it to his right hand, then grasping it firmly, and 
aiming full at Sir Henry’s helm, backed his horse several 
paces to allow of a wider field, gave his steed the spur, and 
dashed forward quick as the wind. The manoeuvre suc- 
ceeded. Completely unprepared for this change alike in 
weapon and attack, still dazzled and slightly confused by 
the rush which had divided them, Sir Henry scarcely saw 
the youthful knight, till he felt his helmet transfixed by the 
lance, and the blow guided so well and true, that irresistibly 
it bore him from his horse, and he lay stunned and helpless, 
but not otherwise hurt, at the mercy of his foe. Recover- 
ing his weapon, Alan, aware that the great disparity of 
numbers rendered the securing English prisoners but a 
mere waste of time, contented himself by waving the stand- 
ard high in air, and again shouting his war-cry, galloped 
impetuously on. Wounded he was, but he knew it not; the 
excitement, the inspiration of the moment was all he felt. 

“ To the king — to the king!” shouted Nigel Bruce, 
urging his horse to the side of Alan, and ably aiding him 
to strike down their rapidly increasing foes. “ Hemmed in 
on all sides, he will fall beneath their thirsting swords. To 
the king — to the king! Yield he never will; and better he 
should not. On, on, for the love of life, of liberty, of 
Scotland ! — on to the king ! ” 

His impassioned words reached even hearts fainting 
’neath exhaustion, failing in hope, for they knew they 
strove in vain; yet did that tone, those words rouse even 
them, and their flagging limbs grew strong for Robert’s 
sake, and some yet reached the spot to fight and die around 
him ; others — alas ! the greater number — fell ere the envied 
goal was gained. 

The sight of the royal standard drew, as Alan had hoped, 


102 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


the attention of some from the king, and gave him a few 
moments to rally. Again there was a moment of diversion 
in favor of the Scotch. The brothers of the Bruce and some 
others of his bravest knights were yet around him, seem- 
ingly uninjured, and each and all appeared endowed with 
the strength of two. The gigantic form of Edward Bruce, 
the whelming sweep of his enormous battle-axe, had cleared 
a partial space around the king, but still the foes hemmed 
in, reinforced even as they fell. About this time the moon, 
riding high in the heavens, had banished the mists which 
had enveloped his rising, and flung down a clear, silvery 
radiance over the whole field, disclosing for the first time to 
King Bobert the exact situation in which he stood. Any 
further struggle, and defeat, imprisonment, death, all 
stared him in the face, and Scotland’s liberty was lost, and 
forever. The agony of this conviction was known to none 
save to the sovereign’s own heart, and to that Searcher of 
all, by whom its every throb was felt. 

The wood behind him was still plunged in deep shadows, 
and he knew the Grampian Hills, with all their inaccessible 
paths and mountain fastnesses — known only to the true 
children of Scotland — could easily be reached, were the pur- 
suit of the English eluded, which he believed could be easily 
accomplished, were they once enabled to retreat into the 
wood. 

The consummate skill and prudence of the Bruce char- 
acterizing him as a general, even as his extraordinary dar- 
ing and exhaustless courage marked the warrior, enabled 
him to effect this precarious and delicate movement, in the 
very sight of and almost surrounded by foes. Covering his 
troops, or rather the scattered remnant of troops, by ex- 
posing his own person to the enemy, the king was still the 
first object of attack, the desire of securing his person, or 
at least, obtaining possession of his head, becoming more 
and more intense. But it seemed as though a protecting 
angel hovering round him: for he had been seen in every 
part of the field ; wherever the struggle had been fiercest, he 
had been the centre ; twice he had been unhorsed, and bare- 
headed almost from the commencement of the strife, yet 
there he was still, seemingly as firm in his saddle, as strong 
in frame, as unscathed in limb, as determined in purpose, 
as when he sent back his acceptance of Pembroke’s chal- 
lenge. Douglas, Fitz-Alan, Alexander and Kigel Bruce, 
and Alan of Buchan, still bearing the standard, were close 
around the king, and it was in this time of precaution, of 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


103 


less inspiriting service, that the young Alan became con- 
scious that he was either severely wounded, or that the 
strength he had taxed far beyond its natural powers was be- 
ginning to fail. Still mechanically he grasped the precious 
banner, and still he crossed his sword with every foe that 
came; but the quick eye of Nigel discerned there was a 
flagging of strength, and he kept close beside him to aid 
and defend. The desired goal was just attained, the foes 
were decreasing in numbers, for they were scattered some 
distance from each other, determined on scouring the 
woods in search of fugitives, the horses of the king and his 
immediate followers were urged to quicken their pace, 
when an iron-headed quarel, discharged from an arbalist, 
struck the royal charger, which, with a shrill cry of death, 
dropped instantly, and again was the king unhorsed. The 
delay occasioned in extricating him from the fallen animal 
was dangerous in the extreme; the greater part of his men 
were at some distance, for the king had ordered them, as 
soon as the unfrequented hollows of the wood were reached, 
to disperse, the better to elude their pursuers. Douglas, 
Alexander Bruce, and Fitz-Alan had galloped on, uncon- 
scious of the accident, and Nigel and Alan were alone near 
him. A minute sufficed for the latter to spring from his 
horse and aid the king to mount, and both entreated, con- 
jured him to follow their companions, and leave them to 
cover his retreat. A while he refused, declaring he would 
abide with them : he would not so cowardly desert them. 

“ Leave you to death ! ” he cried ; “ my friends, my chil- 
dren; no, no! Urge me no more. If I may not save my 
country, I may die for her.” 

“ Thou shalt not, so help me Heaven ! ” answered Nigel, 
impetuously. “ King, friend, brother, there is yet time. 
Hence, I do beseech thee, hence. Nay, an thou wilt not, I 
will e’en forget thou art my king, and force thee from this 
spot.” 

He snatched the reins of his brother’s horse, and urging 
it with his own to their fullest speed, took the most unfre- 
quented path, and dashing over every obstacle, through 
brake and brier, and over hedge and ditch, placed him in 
comparative safety. 

And was Alan deserted? Did his brother in arms, in 
his anxiety to save the precious person of his royal brother, 
forget the tie that bound them, and leave him to die alone ? 
A sickening sense of inability, of utter exhaustion, crept 
over the boy’s sinking frame, inability even to drag his 


104 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


limbs toward the wood and conceal himself from his foes. 
Mechanically he at first stood grasping the now-tattered 
colors, as if his hand were nailed unto the staff, his foot 
rooted to the ground. There were many mingled cries, 
sending their shrill echoes on the night breeze; there were 
chargers scouring the plain; bodies of men passing and re- 
passing within twenty yards of the spot where he stood, yet 
half hidden by the deep shadow of a large tree, for some 
minutes he was unobserved. An armed knight, with about 
twenty followers, were rushing by; they stopped, they rec- 
ognized the banner; they saw the bowed and drooping 
figure who supported it, they dashed toward him. With a 
strong effort Alan roused himself from that lethargy of 
faintness. Nearer and nearer they came. 

“Yield, or you die!” were the words borne to his ear, 
shrill, loud, fraught with death, and his spirit sprang up 
with the sound. He waved his sword above his head, and 
threw himself into a posture of defence; but ere they 
reached him, there was a sudden and rapid tramp of horse, 
and the voice of Nigel Bruce shouted : 

“ Mount, mount ! God in heaven be thanked, I am here 
in time ! ” 

Alan sprung into the saddle; he thought not to inquire 
how that charger had been found, nor knew he till some 
weeks after that Nigel had exposed his own person to im- 
minent danger, to secure one of the many steeds flying mas- 
terless over the plain. On, on they went, and frequently 
the head of Alan drooped from very faintness to his saddle- 
bow, and Nigel feared to see him fall exhausted to the 
earth, but still they pursued their headlong way. Death 
was behind them, and the lives of all true and loyal Scots- 
men were too precious to admit a pause. 

The sun had risen when King Robert gazed round him 
on the remnant of his troops. It was a wild brake, amid 
surrounding rocks and mountains where they stood; a tor- 
rent threw itself headlong from a craggy steep, and made 
its way to the glen, tumbling and roaring and dashing over 
the black stones that opposed its way. The dark pine, the 
stunted fir, the weeping birch, and many another mountain 
tree, marked the natural fertility of the soil, although its 
aspect seemed wild and rude. It was to this spot the king 
had desired the fugitives to direct their several ways, and 
now he gazed upon all, all that were spared to him and 
Scotland from that disastrous night. In scattered groups 
they stood or sate; their swords fallen from their hands. 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


105 


their heads drooping on their breasts, with the mien of men 
whose last hope had been cast on a single die, and wrecked 
forever. And when King Robert thought of the faithful 
men who, when the sun had set the previous evening, had 
gathered round him in such devoted patriotism, such faith- 
ful love, and now beheld the few there were to meet his 
glance, to give him the sympathy, the hope he needed, 
scarcely could he summon energy sufficient to speak against 
hope, to rally the failing spirits of his remaining followers. 
Mar, Athol, Hay, Fraser, he knew were prisoners, and he 
knew, too, that in their cases that word was but synony- 
mous with death. Lennox, his chosen friend, individually 
the dearest of all his followers, he too was not there, though 
none remembered his being taken; Randolph, his nephew, 
and about half of those gallant youths who not ten days 
previous had received and welcomed the honor of knight- 
hood, in all the high hopes and buoyancy of youth and 
healthful life; more, many more than half the number of 
the stout yeomen, who had risen at his call to rescue their 
land from chains — where now were these? Was it wonder 
that the king had sunk upon a stone, and bent his head 
upon his hands ? But speedily he rallied ; he addressed each 
man by name; he spoke comfort, hope, not lessening the 
magnitude of his defeat, but still promising them liberty 
— still promising that yet would their homes be redeemed, 
their country free ; aye, even were he compelled to wander 
months, nay, years in those mountain paths, with naught 
about him but the title of a king; still, while he had life, 
would he struggle on for Scotland ; still did he feel, despite 
of blighted hope, of bitter disappointment, that to him was 
intrusted the sacred task of her deliverance Would he, 
might he sink and relax in his efforts and resign his pur- 
pose, because his first engagement was attended by defeat ? 
had he done so, it was easy to have found death on the field. 
Had he listened to the voice of despair, he confessed, he 
would not have left that field alive. 

“ But I lived for my country, for ye, her children,” he 
continued, his voice becoming impassioned in its fervor; 
“ lived to redeem this night, to suffer on a while, to be your 
savior still. Will ye then desert me? will ye despond, be- 
cause of one defeat — yield to despair, when Scotland yet 
calls aloud? Ho, no, it cannot be!” and roused by his 
earnest, his eloquent appeal, that devoted band sprung 
from their drooping posture, and kneeling at his feet, re- 
newed their oaths of allegiance to him ; the oath that bound 


106 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


them to seek liberty for Scotland. It was then, as one by 
one advanced, the king for the first time missed his brother 
Nigel and the heir of Buchan; amid the overwhelming 
bitterness of thought which had engrossed him, he had for 
a brief while forgotten the precarious situation of Alan, 
and the determination of Nigel to seek and save, or die 
with him; but now the recollection of both rushed upon 
him, and the flush which his eloquence had summoned faded 
at once, and the sudden expression of anguish passing over 
his features roused the attention of all who stood near him. 

“ They must have fallen,” he murmured, and for the 
first time, in a changed and hollow voice. “ My brother, 
my brother, dearest, best! can it be that, in thy young 
beauty, thou, too, art taken from me? — and Alan, how can 
I tell his mother— how face her sorrow for her son ! ” 

Time passed, and there was no sound; the visible anx- 
iety of the king hushed into yet deeper stillness the voices 
hushed before. His meaning was speedily gathered from 
his broken words, and many mounted the craggy heights to 
mark if there might not yet be some signs of the missing 
ones. Time seemed to linger on his flight. The interven- 
ing rocks and bushes confined all sounds within a very nar- 
row space; but at length a faint unintelligible noise broke 
on the stillness, it came nearer, nearer still, a moment more 
and the tread of horses’ hoofs echoed among the rocks — a 
shout, a joyful shout proclaimed them friends. The king 
sprung to his feet. Another minute Nigel and Alan pressed 
around him; with the banner still in his hand, Alan knelt 
and laid it at his sovereign’s feet. 

“From thy hand I received it, to thee I restore it,” he 
said, but his voice was scarcely articulate; he bowed his 
head to press Robert’s extended hand to his lips, and sunk 
senseless at his feet. 


CHAPTER XI. 

Rumors of the fatal issue of the engagement at Meth- 
ven speedily reached Scone, laden, of course, with yet more 
disastrous tidings than had foundation in reality. King 
Robert, it was said, and all his nobles and knights — nay, 
his whole army — were cut ofl to a man; the king, if not 
taken prisoner, was left dead on the field, and all Scotland 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


107 


lay again crushed and enslaved at the feet of Edward. For 
four-and-twenty hours did the fair inhabitants of the 
palace labor under this belief, well-nigh stunned beneath 
the accumulation of misfortune. It was curious to remark 
the different forms in which affliction appeared in different 
characters. The queen, in loud sobs and repeated wailing, 
at one time deplored her own misery ; at others, accused her 
husband of rashness and madness. Why had he not taken 
her advice and remained quiet? Why could he not have 
been contented with the favor of Edward and a proud, 
fair heritage? What good did he hope to get for himself 
by assuming the crown of so rude and barren a land as 
Scotland? Had she not told him he was but a summer 
king, that the winter would soon blight his prospects and 
nip his budding hopes ; and had she not proved herself wiser 
even than he was himself? and then she would suddenly 
break off in these reproaches to declare that, if he were a 
prisoner, she would go to him ; she would remain with him 
to the last ; she would prove how much she idolized him — 
her own, her brave, her noble Robert. And vain was every 
effort on the part of her sisters-in-law and the Countess 
of Buchan, and other of her friends, to mitigate these suc- 
cessive bursts of sorrow. The Lady Seaton, of a stronger 
mind, yet struggled with despondency, yet strove to hope, 
to believe all was not as overwhelming as had been de- 
scribed; although, if rumor were indeed true, she had lost 
a husband and a son, the gallant young Earl of Mar, whom 
she had trained to all noble deeds and honorable thoughts, 
for he had been fatherless from infancy. Lady Mary could 
forget her own deep anxieties, her own fearful forebodings, 
silently and unobservedly to watch, to follow, to tend the 
Countess of Buchan, whose marble cheek and lip, and some- 
what sterner expression of countenance than usual, alone 
betrayed the anxiety passing within, for words it found 
not. She could share with her the task of soothing, of 
cheering Agnes, whose young spirit lay crushed beneath 
this heavy blow. She did not complain, she did not mur- 
mur, but evidently struggled to emulate her mother’s calm- 
ness, for she would bend over her frame and endeavor to 
continue her embroidery. But those who watched her, 
marked her frequent shudder, the convulsive sob, the tiny 
hands pressed closely together, and then upon her eyes, as 
if to still their smarting throbs; and Isoline, who sat in 
silence on a cushion at her feet, could catch such low whis- 
pered words as these ; 

8 


108 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


“ Nigel, Nigel, could I but know thy fate ! Dead, dead ! 
— could I not die with thee? Imprisoned, have I not a 
right to follow thee; to tend, to soothe thee? Anything, 
oh, anything, but this horrible suspense ! Alas, my brother, 
thou too, so young, to die.” 

The morning of the second day brought other and less 
distressing rumors; all had not fallen, all were not taken. 
There were tales of courage, of daring gallantry, of mighty 
struggles almost past belief; but what were they, even in 
that era of chivalry, to the heart sinking under apprehen- 
sions, the hopes just springing up amid the wild chaos of 
thoughts to smile a moment, to be crushed ’neath suspense, 
uncertainty, the next ? Still the eager tones of conjecture, 
the faintest-spoken whispers of renewed hope, were better 
than the dead stillness, the heavy hush of despair. 

And the queen’s apartments, in which at sunset all her 
friends had assembled, presented less decided sounds of 
mourning and of wail, than the previous day. Margaret 
was indeed still one minute plunged in tears and sobs, and 
the next hoping more, believing more than any one around 
her. Agnes had tacitly accompanied her mother and Lady 
Mary to the royal boudoir, but she had turned in very sick- 
ness of heart from all her companions, and remained stand- 
ing in a deep recess formed by the high and narrow case- 
ment, alone, save Isoline, who still clung to her side, pale, 
motionless as the marble statue near her, whose unconscious 
repose she envied. 

“ Speak, Isabella, why will you not speak to me ? ” said 
the queen, fretfully. “ My husband bade me look to thee 
for strength, for support under care and affliction like to 
this, yet thou keepest aloof from me; thou hast words of 
comfort, of cheering for all save me.” 

“ Not so, royal lady, not so,” she answered, as with a 
faint, scarcely perceptible smile, she advanced to the side 
of her royal mistress, and took her hand in hers. “ I have 
spoken, I have urged, entreated, conjured thee to droop 
not ; for thy husband’s sake, to hope on, despite the terrible 
rumors abroad. I have besought thee to seek firmness for 
his sake ; but thou didst but tell me, Isabella, Isabella, thou 
canst not feel as I do, he is naught to thee but thy king; 
to me, what is he not? king, hero, husband — all, my only 
all; and I have desisted, lady, for I deemed my words 
offended, my counsel unadvised, and looked on but as cold 
and foolish.” 

“Nay, did I say all this to thee? Isabella, forgive me, 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


109 


for indeed, indeed, I knew it not,” replied Margaret, her 
previous fretfulness subsiding into a softened and less 
painful burst of weeping. “ He is in truth, my all, my 
heart’s dearest, best, and without him, oh ! what am I ? even 
a cipher, a reed, useless to myself, to my child, as to all 
others. I am not like thee, Isabella — would, would I were ; 
I should be more worthy of my Robert’s love, and conse- 
quently dearer to his heart. I can be but a burden to him 
now.” 

“ Hush, hush ! would he not chide thee for such words, 
my Margaret ? ” returned the countess, soothingly, and in a 
much lower voice, speaking as she would to a younger sis- 
ter. “ Had he not deemed thee worthy, would he have made 
thee his? no, no, believe it not; he is too true, too honor- 
able for such thought.” 

“ He loved me, because he saw I loved,” whispered the 
queen, perceiving that her companions had left her well- 
nigh alone with the countess, and following, as was her 
custom, every impulse of her fond but ill-regulated heart. 
“ I had not even strength to conceal that — that truth which 
any other would have died rather than reveal. He saw it 
and his noble spirit was touched; and he has been all, all, 
aye, more than I could have dreamed, to me — so loving and 
so true.” 

“ Then why fancy thyself a burden, not a joy to him, 
sweet friend ? ” demanded Isabella of Buchan, the rich ac- 
cents of her voice even softer and sweeter than usual, for 
there was something in the clinging confidence of the queen 
it was impossible not to love. 

“ I did not, I could not, for he cherished me so fondly 
till this sudden rising — this time, when his desperate enter- 
prise demands energy and firmness, even from the humblest 
female, how much more from the Bruce’s wife! and his 
manner is not changed toward me, nor his love. I know 
he loves me, cherishes me, as he ever did ; but he must pity 
my weakness, my want of nerve ; when he compares me to 
himself, he must look on me with almost contempt. For 
now it is, now that clearer than ever his character stands 
forth in such glorious majesty, such moderation, such a 
daring yet self -governed spirit, that I feel how utterly un- 
worthy I am of him, how little capable to give that spirit, 
that mind the reflection it must demand; and when my 
weak fears prevail, my weak fancies speak only of danger 
and defeat, how can he bear with me ? Must I not become, 
if I am not now, a burden ? ” 


110 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


“ No, dearest Margaret,” replied the countess, instantly. 
“ The mind that can so well appreciate the virtues of her 
husband will never permit herself, through weakness and 
want of nerve, to become a burden to him. Thou hast but 
to struggle with these imaginary terrors, to endeavor to 
encourage, instead of to dispirit, and he will love and cher- 
ish thee even more than hadst thou never been unnerved.” 

“ Let him be restored to me, and I will do all this. I 
will make myself more worthy of his love ; but, oh, Isabella, 
while I speak this, perhaps he is lost to me forever; I may 
never see his face, never hear that tone of love again ! ” and 
a fresh hood of weeping concluded her words. 

“ Nay, but thou wilt — I know thou wilt,” answered the 
countess, cheeringly. “ Trust me, sweet friend, though de- 
feat may attend him a while, though he may pass through 
trial and suffering ere the goal be gained, Robert Bruce 
will eventually deliver his country — will be her king, her 
savior — will raise her in the scale of nations, to a level 
even with the highest, noblest, most deserving. He is not 
lost to thee; trial will but prove his worth unto his country- 
men even more than would success.” 

“ And how knowest thou these things, my Isabella ? ” de- 
manded Margaret, looking up in her face, with a half -play- 
ful, half-sorrowful smile. “ Hast thou the gift of proph- 
ecy ? ” 

“ Prophecy ! ” repeated the countess, sadly. “ Alas ! ’tis 
but the character of Robert which hath inspired my 
brighter vision. Had I the gift of prophecy, my fond heart 
would not start and quiver thus, when it vainly strives to 
know the fate of my only son. I, too, have anxiety, lady, 
though it find not words.” 

“ Thou hast, thou hast, indeed ; and yet I, weak, selfish 
as I am, think only of myself. Stay by me, Isabella; oh, 
do not leave me, I am stronger by thy side.” 

It was growing darker and darker, and the hopes that, 
ere night fell, new and more trustworthy intelligence of the 
movements of the fugitives would be received were be- 
coming fainter and fainter on every heart. Voices were 
hushed to silence, or spoke only in whispers. Half an hour 
passed thus, when the listless suffering on the lovely face of 
Agnes was observed by Isoline to change to an expression 
of intense attention. 

“ Hearest thou no step ? ” she said, in a low, piercing 
whisper, and laying a cold and trembling hand on Isoline’s 
arm. “ It is, it is his — it is Nigel’s; he has not fallen — he 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


Ill 


is spared ! ” and she started up, a bright flush on her cheek, 
her hands pressed convulsively on her heart. 

“ Nay, Agnes, there is no sound, ’tis but a fancy,” but 
even while she spoke, a rapid step was heard along the cor- 
ridor, and a shadow darkened the doorway — but was that 
Nigel ? There was no plume, no proud crest on his helmet ; 
its visor was still closely barred, and a surcoat of coarse 
black stuff was thrown over his armor, without any decora- 
tion to display or betray the rank of the wearer. A faint 
cry of alarm broke from the queen and many of her friends, 
but with one bound Agnes sprang to the intruder, whose 
arms were open to receive her, and wildly uttering “ Ni- 
gel ! ” fainted on his bosom. 

“ And didst thou know me even thus, beloved ? ” he mur- 
mured, rapidly unclasping his helmet and dashing it from 
him, to imprint repeated kisses on her cheek. “ Wake, 
Agnes, best beloved, my own sweet love; what hadst thou 
heard that thou art thus? Oh, wake, smile, speak to me: 
’tis thine own Nigel calls.” 

And vainly, till that face smiled again on him in con- 
sciousness, would the anxious inmates of that room have 
sought and received intelligence, had he not been followed 
by Lord Douglas, Fitz-Alan, and others, their armor and 
rank concealed as was Nigel’s, who gave the required infor- 
mation as eagerly as it was desired. 

“ Robert — my king, my husband — where is he — why is 
he not here ? ” reiterated Margaret, vainly seeking to dis- 
tinguish his figure amid the others, obscured as they were 
by the rapidly-increasing darkness. “ Why is he not with 
ye — why is he not here ? ” 

“ And he is here, Meg ; here to chide thy love as less 
penetrating, less able to read disguise or concealment than 
our gentle Agnes there. Nay, weep not, dearest; my hopes 
are as strong, my purpose as unchanged, my trust in 
Heaven as fervent as it was when I went forth to battle. 
Trial and suffering must be mine a while, I have called it 
on my own head ; but still, oh, still thy Robert shall deliver 
Scotland — shall cast aside her chains.” 

The deep, manly voice of the king acted like magic on 
on the depressed spirits of those around him; and though 
there was grief, bitter, bitter grief to tell, though many a 
heart’s last lingering hopes were crushed ’neath that fell 
certainty, which they thought to have pictured during the 
hours of suspense, and deemed themselves strengthened to 
endure, yet still ’twas a grief that found vent in tears — 


112 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


grief that admitted of soothing, of sympathy — grief time 
might heal, not the harrowing agony of grief half told — 
hopes rising to be crushed. 

Still did the Countess of Buchan cling to the massive 
arm of the chair which Margaret had left, utterly powerless, 
wholly incapacitated from asking the question on which her 
very life seemed to depend. Not even the insensibility of 
her Agnes had had the power to rouse her from the stupor 
of anxiety which had spread over her, sharpening every 
faculty and feeling indeed, but rooting her to the spot. 
Her boy, her Alan, he was not among those warriors; she 
heard not the beloved accents of his voice; she saw not 
his boyish form — darkness could not deceive her. Dis- 
guise would not prevent him, were he among his com- 
panions, from seeking her embrace. One word would end 
that anguish, would speak the worst, end it — had he 
fallen ! 

The king looked round the group anxiously and inquir- 
ingly. 

“ The Countess of Buchan?” he said; “ where is our 
noble friend? she surely hath a voice to welcome her king, 
even though he return to her defeated.” 

“ Sire, I am here,” she said, but with difficulty; and 
Robert, as if he understood it, could read all she was en- 
during, hastened toward her, and took both her cold hands 
in his. 

“ I give thee joy,” he said, in accents that reassured her 
on the instant. “Nobly, gallantly, hath thy patriot boy 
proved himself thy son ; well and faithfully hath he won his 
spurs, and raised the honor of his mother’s olden line. He 
bade me greet thee with all loving duty, and say he did 
but regret his wounds that they prevented his attending 
me, and throwing himself at his mother’s feet.” 

“ He is wounded, then, my liege ? ” Robert felt her 
hands tremble in his hold. 

“ It were cruel to deceive thee, lady — desperately but 
not dangerously wounded. On the honor of a true knight, 
there is naught to alarm, though something, perchance, to 
regret ; for he pines and grieves that it may be yet a while 
ere he recover sufficient strength to don his armor. It is 
not loss of blood, but far more exhaustion, from the super- 
human exertions that he made. Edward and Alexander are 
with him; the one a faithful guard, in himself a host, the 
other no unskilful leech: trust me, noble lady, there is 
naught to fear.” 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


113 


He spoke, evidently to give her time to recover the sud- 
den revulsion of feeling which his penetrating eye dis- 
covered had nearly overpowered her, and he succeeded ; ere 
he ceased, that quivering of frame and lip had passed, and 
Isabella of Buchan again stood calm and firm, enabled 
to inquire all particulars of her child, and then join 
in the council held as to the best plan to be adopted 
with regard to the safety of the queen and her com- 
panions. 

In Scone, it was evident, they could not remain, for 
already the towns and villages around, which had all de- 
clared for the Bruce, were hurrying in the greatest terror 
to humble themselves before Pembroke, and entreat his 
interference in their favor with his sovereign. There was 
little hope, even if Scone remained faithful to his interests, 
that she would be enabled to defend herself from the at- 
tacks of the English ; and it would be equally certain, that 
if the wife of Bruce, and the wives and daughters of so 
many of his loyal followers remained within her walls, to 
obtain possession of their persons would become Pem- 
broke’s first object. It remained to decide whether they 
would accompany their sovereign to his mountain fast- 
nesses, and expose themselves to all the privations and 
hardships which would inevitably attend a wandering 
life, or that they should depart under a safe escort to Nor- 
way, whose monarch was friendly to the interests of Scot- 
land. This latter scheme the king very strongly advised, 
representing in vivid colors the misery they might have to 
endure if they adhered to him; the continual danger of 
their falling into the hands of Edward, and even could they 
elude this, how was it possible their delicate frames, accus- 
tomed as they were to luxury and repose, could sustain the 
rude fare, the roofless homes, the continued wandering 
amid the crags and floods and deserts of the mountains. He 
spoke eloquently and feelingly, and there was a brief silence 
when he concluded. Margaret had throwm her arms round 
her husband, and buried her face on his bosom; her child 
clung to her father’s knee, and laid her soft cheek caress- 
ingly by his. Isabella of Buchan, standing a little aloof, 
remained silent indeed, but no one who gazed on her could 
doubt her determination or believe she wavered. Agnes 
was standing in the same recess she had formerly occupied, 
but how different was the expression of her features. The 
arm of Nigel was twined round her, his head bent down to 
hers in deep and earnest commune ; he was pleading against 


114 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


his own will and feelings it seemed, and though he strove 
to answer every argument, to persuade her it was far better 
she should seek safety in a foreign land, her determination 
more firmly expressed than could have been supposed from 
her yielding disposition, to abide with him, in weal or in 
woe, to share his wanderings, his home, be it roofless on the 
mountain, or within palace walls ; that she was a Highland 
girl, accustomed to mountain paths and woody glens, nerved 
to hardship and toil — this determination, we say, contrary 
as it was to his eloquent pleadings, certainly afforded Nigel 
no pain, and might his beaming features be taken as reply, 
it was fraught with unmingled pleasure. In a much shorter 
time than we have taken to describe this, however, the 
queen had raised her head, and looking up in her husband’s 
face with an expression of devotedness, which gave her 
countenance a charm it had never had before, fervently ex- 
claimed : 

“ Robert, come woe or weal, I will abide with thee ; her 
husband’s side is the best protection for a wife ; and if wan- 
dering and suffering be his portion, who will soothe and 
cheer as the wife of his love? My spirit is but cowardly, 
my will but weak; but by thee I may gain the strength 
which in foreign lands could never be my own. Imaginary 
terrors, fancied horrors would be worse, oh, how much 
worse than reality ! and when we met again I should be still 
less worthy of thy love. No, Robert, no! urge me not, 
plead to me no more. My friends may do as they will, but 
Margaret abides with thee.” 

“ And who is there will pause, will hesitate, when their 
queen hath spoken thus ? ” continued the Countess of Buch- 
an, in a tone that to Margaret’s ear whispered approval 
and encouragement. “ Surely, there is none here whose 
love for their country is so weak, their loyalty to their sov- 
ereign of such little worth, that at the first defeat, the first 
disappointment, they would fly over seas for safety, and 
contentedly leave the graves of their fathers, the hearths 
of their ancestors, the homes of their childhood to be dese- 
crated by the chains of a foreign tyrant, by the footsteps of 
his hirelings ? Oh, do not let us w T aver ! Let us prove that 
though the arm of woman is weaker than that of man, her 
spirit is as firm, her heart as true; and that privation, and 
suffering, and hardship encountered amid the mountains of 
our land, the natural fastnesses of Scotland, in company 
with our rightful king, our husbands, our children — all, all, 
aye, death itself, were preferable to exile and separation. 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


115 


’Tis woman’s part to gild, to bless, and make a home, and 
still, still we may do this, though our ancestral homes be in 
the hands of Edward. Scotland has still her sheltering 
breast for all her children ; and shall we desert her now ? ” 

“ No, no, no ! ” echoed from every side, enthusiasm kin- 
dling with her words. “ Better privation and danger in 
Scotland, than safety and comfort elsewhere.” 

Nor was this the mere decision of the moment, founded 
an its enthusiasm. The next morning found them equally 
firm, equally determined; even the w r eak and timid Mar- 
garet rose in that hour of trial superior to herself, and 
preparations were rapidly made for their departure. Nor 
were the prelates of Scotland, who had remained at Scone 
during the king’s engagement, backward in encouraging 
and blessing their decision. His duties prevented the Ab- 
bot of Scone accompanying them; but it was with deep 
regret he remained behind, not from any fear of the Eng- 
lish, for a warrior spirit lurked beneath those episcopal robes, 
but from his deep reverence for the enterprise, and love for 
the person of King Robert. He acceded to the necessity of 
remaining in his abbey with the better grace, as he fondly 
hoped to preserve the citizens in the good faith and loyalty 
they had so nobly demonstrated. The Archbishop of St. 
Andrew’s and the Bishop of Glasgow determined on follow- 
ing their sovereign to the death; and the spirit of Robert, 
wounded as it had been, felt healed and soothed, and in- 
spired afresh, as the consciousness of his power over some 
true and faithful hearts, of every grade and rank of either 
sex, became yet more strongly proved in this hour of de- 
pression. He ceased to speak of seeking refuge for his fair 
companions in another land, their determination to abide 
with him, and their husbands and sons, was too heartfelt, 
too unwavering, to allow of a hope to change it; and he 
well knew that their presence, instead of increasing the 
cares and anxieties of his followers, would rather lessen 
them, by shedding a spirit of chivalry even over the weary 
wanderings he knew must be their portion for a while, by 
gilding with the light of happier days the hours of dark- 
ness that might surround them. 


116 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


CHAPTER XII. 

The queen and her companions were conveyed in de- 
tachments from the palace and town of Scone, the Bruce 
believing, with justice, they would thus attract less notice, 
and be better able to reach the mountains in safety. The 
Countess of Buchan, her friend Lady Mary, Agnes, and 
Isoline, attended by Sir Nigel, were the first to depart, for 
though she spoke it not, deep anxiety was on the mother’s 
heart for the fate of her boy. They mostly left Scone at 
different hours of the night; and the second day from the 
king’s arrival, the palace was untenanted, all signs of the 
gallant court, which for a brief space had shed such lustre, 
such rays of hope on the old town, were gone, and sorrow- 
fully and dispiritedly the burghers and citizens went about 
their several occupations, for their hearts yet throbbed in 
loyalty and patriotism, though hope they deemed was 
wholly at an end. Still they burned with indignation at 
every intelligence of new desertions to Edward, and though 
the power of Pembroke compelled them to bend unwillingly 
to the yoke, it was as a bow too tightly strung, which 
would snap rather than use its strength in the cause of Ed- 
ward. 

A few weeks’ good nursing from his mother and sister, 
attended as it was by the kindness and warm friendship of 
the sovereign he adored, and the constant care of Nigel, 
speedily restored the heir of Buchan, if not entirely to his 
usual strength, at least with sufficient to enable him to ac- 
company the royal wanderers wherever they pitched their 
tent, and by degrees join in the adventurous excursions of 
his young companions to supply them with provender, for 
on success in hunting entirely depended their subsistence. 

It was in itself a strange romance, the life they led. 
Frequently the blue sky was their only covering, the purple 
heath their only bed; nor would the king fare better than 
his followers. Eagerly, indeed, the young men ever exerted 
themselves to form tents or booths of brushwood, branches 
of trees, curiously and tastefully interwoven with the wild 
flowers that so luxuriantly adorned the rocks, for the ac- 
commodation of the faithful companions who preferred 
this precarious existence with them, to comfort, safety, and 
luxury in a foreign land. Nature, indeed, lavishly supplied 
them with beautiful materials, and where the will was good, 
exertion proved but a new enjoyment. Couches and cush- 


THE DAYS OF BKUCE. 


117 


ions of the softest moss formed alike seats and places of re- 
pose; by degrees almost a village of these primitive dwell- 
ings would start into being, in the centre of some wild 
rocks, which formed natural barriers around them, watered, 
perhaps, by some pleasant brook rippling and gushing by in 
wild, yet soothing music, gemmed by its varied flowers. 

Here would be the rendezvous for some few weeks ; here 
would Margaret and her companions rest a while from their 
fatiguing wanderings; and could they have thought but 
of the present , they would have been completely happy. 
Here would their faithful knights return laden with the 
spoils of the chase, or with some gay tale of danger dared, 
encountered, and conquered; here would the song send its 
full tone amid the responding echoes. The harp and muse 
of Nigel gave a refinement and delicacy to these meetings, 
marking them, indeed, the days of chivalry and poetry. 
Even Edward Bruce, the stem, harsh, dark, passioned war- 
rior, even he felt the magic of the hour, and now that the 
courage of Nigel had been proved, gave willing ear, and 
would be among the first to bid him wake his harp, and 
soothe the troubled visions of the hour; and Robert, who 
saw so much of his own soul reflected in his young brother, 
mingled as it was with yet more impassioned fervor, more 
beautiful, more endearing qualities, for Nigel had needed 
not trial to purify his soul, and mark him out a patriot, 
Robert, in very truth, loved him, and often would share 
with him his midnight couch, his nightly watchings, that 
he might confide to that young heart the despondency, the 
hopelessness, that to none other might be spoken, none 
other might suspect — the secret fear that his crime would 
be visited on his unhappy country, and he forbidden to se- 
cure her freedom even by the sacrifice of his life. 

“ If it be so, it must be so ; then be thou her savior, her 
deliverer, my Nigel,” he would often urge ; “ droop not be- 
cause I may have departed; struggle on, do as thy soul 
prompts, and success will, nay, must attend thee; for thou 
art pure and spotless, and well deserving of all the glory, 
the blessedness, that will attend the sovereign of our coun- 
try freed from chains; thou art, in truth, deserving of all 
this, but I ” 

“ Peace, peace, my brother!” would be Nigel’s answer; 
“ thou, only thou shalt deliver our country, shall be her 
free, her patriot king! Have we not often marked the 
glorious sun struggling with the black masses of clouds 
which surround and obscure his rising, struggling, and in 


118 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


vain, to penetrate their murky folds, and deluge the world 
with light, shining a brief moment, and then immersed in 
darkness, until, as he nears the western horizon, the heavi- 
est clouds flee before him, the spotless azure spreadeth its 
beautiful expanse, the brilliant rays dart on every side, 
warming and cheering the whole earth with reviving beams, 
and finally sinking to his rest in a flood of splendor, more 
dazzling, more imposing than ever attends his departure 
when his dawn hath been one of joy. Such is thy career, 
my brother; such will be thy glorious fate. Oh, droop not 
even to me — to thyself ! Hope on, strive on, and thou shalt 
succeed ! ” 

“Would I had thy hopeful spirit, my Nigel, an it pic- 
tured and believed things as these ! ” mournfully would the 
Bruce reply, and clasp the young warrior to his heart; but 
it was only Nigel’s ear that heard these whispers of despon- 
dency, only Nigel’s eye which could penetrate the inmost 
folds of that royal heart. Not even to his wife — his Mar- 
garet, whose faithfulness in these hours of adversity had 
drawn tier yet closer to her husband — did he breathe aught 
save encouragement and hope ; and to his followers he was 
the same as he had been from the first, resolute, unwaver- 
ing; triumphing over every obstacle; cheering the faint- 
hearted; encouraging the desponding; smiling with his 
young followers, ever on the alert to provide amusement 
for them, to approve, guide, instruct ; gallantly and kindly 
to smooth the path for his female companions, joining in 
every accommodation for them, even giving his manual 
labor with the lowest of his followers, if his aid would 
lessen fatigue, or more quickly enhance comfort. And 
often and often in the little encampment we have de- 
scribed, when night fell, and warrior and dame would 
assemble, in various picturesque groups, on the grassy 
mound, the king, seated in the midst of them, would read 
aloud, and divert even the most wearied frame and care- 
worn mind by the stirring scenes and chivalric feelings his 
MSS. recorded. The talent of deciphering manuscripts, in- 
deed of reading anything, was one seldom attained or even 
sought for in the age of which we treat; the sword and 
spear were alike the recreation and the business of the 
nobles. Reading and writing were in general confined to 
monks, and the other clergy; but Robert, even as his 
brother Nigel, possessed both these accomplishments, al- 
though to the former their value never seemed so fully 
known as in his wanderings. His readings were diversified 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


119 


by rude narratives or tales, which he demanded in return 
from his companions, and many a hearty laugh would re- 
sound from the woodland glades, at the characteristic 
humor with which these demands were complied with: the 
dance, too, would diversify these meetings. A night of re- 
pose might perhaps succeed, to be disturbed at its close by a 
cause for alarm, and those pleasant resting-places must be 
abandoned, the happy party be divided, and scattered far 
and wide, to encounter fatigue, danger, perchance even 
death, ere they met again. 

Yet still they drooped not, murmured not. No voice 
was ever heard to wish the king’s advice had been taken, 
and they had sought refuge in Norway. Not even Mar- 
garet breathed one sigh, dropped one tear, in her husband’s 
presence, although many were the times that she would 
have sunk from exhaustion, had not Isabella of Buchan 
been near as her guardian angel to revive, encourage, in- 
fuse a portion of her own spirit in the weaker heart, which 
so confidingly clung to her. The youngest and most timid 
maiden, the oldest and most ailing man, still maintained 
the same patriotic spirit and resolute devotion which had 
upheld them at first. “ The Bruce and Scotland ” were the 
words imprinted on their souls, endowed with a power to 
awake the sinking heart, and rouse the fainting frame. 

To Agnes and Nigel, it was shrewdly suspected, these 
wanderings in the centre of magnificent nature, their 
hearts open to each other, revelling in the scenes around 
them, were seasons of unalloyed enjoyment, happiness more 
perfect than the state and restraint of a court. Precari- 
ous, indeed, it was, but even in moments of danger they 
were not parted; for Nigel was ever the escort of the 
Countess of Buchan, and danger by his side lost half its 
terror to Agnes. He left her side but to return to it cov- 
ered with laurels, unharmed, uninjured, even in the midst 
of foes; and so frequently did this occur, that the fond, 
confiding spirit of the young Agnes folded itself around 
the belief that he bore a charmed life; that evil and death 
could not injure one so faultless and beloved. Their love 
grew stronger with each passing week; for nature, beautiful 
nature, is surely the field of that interchange of thought, 
for that silent commune of soul so dear to those that love. 
The simplest flower, the gushing brooks, the frowning hills, 
the varied hues attending the rising and the setting of the 
sun, all were turned to poetry when the lips of Nigel spoke 
to the ears of love. The mind of Agnes expanded before 


120 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


these rich communings. She was so young, so guileless, 
her character moulded itself on his. She learned yet more 
to comprehend, to appreciate the nobility of his soul, to 
cling yet closer to him, as the consciousness of the rich 
treasure she possessed in his love became more and more un- 
folded to her view. The natural fearlessness of her dis- 
position gave way, and the firmness, the enthusiasm of pur- 
pose, took possession of her heart, secretly and silently, in- 
deed; for to all, save to herself, she was the same gentle, 
timid, clinging girl that she had ever been. 

So passed the summer months; but as winter ap- 
proached, and the prospects of the king remained as appar- 
ently hopeless and gloomy as they were on his first taking 
refuge in the mountains, it was soon pretty evident that 
some other plan must be resorted to ; for strong as the reso- 
lution might be, the delicate frames of his female com- 
panions, already suffering from the privations to which 
they had been exposed, could not sustain the intense cold 
and heavy snows peculiar to the mountain region. Gal- 
lantly as the king had borne himself in every encounter 
with the English and Anglo-Scots, sustaining with unexam- 
pled heroism repeated defeats and blighted hopes, driven 
from one mountainous district by the fierce opposition of 
its inhabitants, from another by a cessation of supplies, 
till famine absolutely threatened, closely followed by its 
grim attendant, disease, all his efforts to collect and in- 
spire his countrymen with his own spirit, his own hope, 
were utterly and entirely fruitless, for his enemies appeared 
to increase around him, the autumn found him as far, if 
not further, from the successful termination of his desires 
than he had been at first. 

All Scotland lay at the feet of his foe. John of Lorn, 
maternally related to the slain Red Comyn, had collected 
his forces to the number of a thousand, and effectually 
blockaded his progress through the district of Breadalbane, 
to which he had retreated from a superior body of English, 
driving him to a narrow pass in the mountains, where the 
Bruce’s cavalry had no power to be of service; and had it 
not been for the king’s extraordinary exertions in guarding 
the rear, and there checking the desperate fury of the 
assailants, and interrupting their headlong pursuit of the 
fugitives, by a strength, activity, and prudence, that in 
these days would seem incredible, the patriots must have 
been cut off to a man. Here it was that the family of 
Lorn obtained possession of that brooch of Bruce, which 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


121 


even to this day is preserved as a relic, and lauded as a tri- 
umph, proving how nearly their redoubted enemy had 
fallen into their hands. Similar struggles had marked his 
progress through the mountains ever since the defeat of 
Methven; but vain was every effort of his foes to obtain 
possession of his person, destroy his energy, and thus frus- 
trate his purpose. Perth, Inverness, Argyle, and Aberdeen 
had alternately been the scene of his wanderings. The 
middle of autumn found him with about a hundred fol- 
lowers, among whom were the Countess of Buchan and her 
son, amid the mountains which divide Kincardine from the 
southwest boundary of Aberdeen. The remainder of his 
officers and men, divided into small bands, each with some 
of their female companions under their especial charge, 
were scattered over the different districts, as better adapted 
to concealment and rest. 

It was that part of the year when day gives place to 
night so suddenly, that the sober calm of twilight even ap- 
pears denied to us. The streams rushed by, turbid and 
swollen from the heavy autumnal rains. A rude wind had 
robbed most of the trees of their foliage; the sere and 
withered leaves, indeed, yet remained on the boughs, beau- 
tiful even in their decay, but the slightest breath would 
carry them away from their resting-places, and the moun- 
tain passes were incumbered, and often slippery from the 
fallen leaves. The mountains looked frowning and bare, 
the pine and fir bent and rocked in their craggy cradles, and 
the wind moaned through their dark branches sadly and 
painfully. The sun had, indeed, shone fitfully through the 
day, but still the scene was one of melancholy desolation, 
and the heart of the Countess of Buchan, bold and firm 
in general, could not successfully resist the influence of 
Nature’s sadness. She sat comparatively alone ; a covering 
had, indeed, been thrown over some thick poles, which in- 
terwove with brushwood, and with a seat and couch of 
heather, which was still in flower, formed a rude tent, and 
was destined for her repose; but until night’s dark mantle 
was fully unfurled, she had preferred the natural seat of a 
jutting crag, sheltered from the wind by an overhanging 
rock and some spreading firs. Her companions were scat- 
tered in different directions in search of food, as was their 
wont. Some ten or fifteen men had been left with her, and 
they were dispersed about the mountain collecting firewood, 
and a supply of heath and moss for the night encampment; 
within hail, indeed, but scarcely within sight, for the space 


122 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


where the countess sate commanded little more than pro- 
truding crags and stunted trees, and mountains lifting 
their dark, bare brows to the starless sky. 

It was not fear which had usurped dominion in the 
Lady Isabella’s heart, it was that heavy, sluggish, inde- 
finable weight which sometimes clogs the spirit we know 
not wherefore, until some event following quick upon it 
forces us, even against our will, to believe it the overhanging 
shadow of the future which had darkened the present. She 
was sad, very sad, yet she could not, as was ever her cus- 
tom, bring that sadness to judgment, and impartially ex- 
amining and determining its cause, remove it if possible, or 
banish it resolutely from her thoughts. 

An impulse indefinable, yet impossible to be resisted, 
had caused her to intrust her Agnes to the care of Lady 
Mary and Nigel, and compelled her to follow her son, who 
had been the chosen companion of the king. Kigidly, 
sternly, she had questioned her own heart as to the motives 
of this decision. It was nothing new her accompanying 
her son, for she had invariably done so; but it was some- 
thing unusual her being separated from the queen, and 
though her heart told her that her motives were so upright, 
so pure, they could have borne the sternest scrutiny, there 
was naught which the most rigid mentor could condemn, 
yet a feeling that evil would come of this was among the 
many others which weighed on her heart. She could not 
tell wherefore, yet she wished it had been otherwise, wished 
the honor of being selected as the king’s companion had 
fallen on other than her son, for separate herself from him 
she could not. One cause of this despondency might have 
been traced to the natural sinking of the spirit when it 
finds itself alone, with time for its own fancies, after a 
long period of exertion, and that mental excitement which, 
unseen to all outward observers, preys upon itself. Mem- 
ory had awakened dreams and visions she had long looked 
upon as dead; it did but picture brightly, beautifully, joy- 
ously what might have been, and disturbed the tranquil 
sadness which was usual to her now; disturb it as with 
phantasmagoria dancing on the brain, yet it was a struggle 
hard and fierce to banish them again. As one sweet fancy 
sunk another rose, even as gleams of moonlight on the 
waves which rise and fall with every breeze. Fancy and 
reason strove for dominion, but the latter conquered. What 
could be now the past, save as a vision of the night; the 
present, a stern reality with all its duties — duties not alone 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


123 


to others, but to herself. These were the things on which 
her thoughts must dwell ; these must banish all which might 
have been and they did; and Isabella of Buchan came 
through that fiery ordeal unscathed, uninjured in her self- 
esteem, conscious that not in one thought did she wrong 
her husband, in not one dream did she wrong the gentle 
heart of the queen which so clung to her ; in not the wildest 
flight of fancy did she look on Robert as aught save as the 
deliverer of his country, the king of all true Scottish men. 

She rose up from that weakness of suffering, strength- 
ened in her resolve to use every energy in the queen’s ser- 
vice in supporting, encouraging, endeavoring so to work 
on her appreciation of her husband’s character, as to render 
her yet more worthy of his love. She had ever sought to 
remain beside the queen, ever contrived they should be of 
the same party; that her mind was ever on the stretch, on 
the excitement, could not be denied, but she knew not 
how great its extent till the call for exertion was com- 
paratively over, and she found herself, she scarcely under- 
stood how, the only female companion of her sovereign, the 
situation she had most dreaded, most determined to avoid. 
While engaged in the performance of her arduous task, the 
schooling her own heart and devoting herself to Robert’s 
wife, virtue seemed to have had its own reward, for a new 
spirit had entwined her whole being — excitement, internal 
as it was, had given a glow to thought and action; but in 
her present solitude the reaction of spirit fell upon her as 
a dull, sluggish weight of lead. She had suffered, too, from 
both privation and fatigue, and she was aware her strength 
was failing, and this perhaps was another cause of her de- 
pression; but be that as it may, darkness closed round her 
unobserved, and when startled by some sudden sound, she 
raised her head from her hands, she could scarcely discern 
one object from another in the density of gloom. 

“ Surely night has come suddenly upon us,” she said, 
half aloud ; “ it is strange they have not yet returned,” and 
risng, she was about seeking the tent prepared for her, 
when a rude grasp was laid on her arm, and a harsh, un- 
known voice uttered, in suppressed accents : 

“Not so fast, fair mistress, not so fast! My way does 
not lie in that direction, and, with your leave, my way is 
yours.” 

“ How, man ! fellow, detain me at your peril ! ” answered 
the countess, sternly, permitting no trace of terror to falter 
in her voice, although a drawn sword gleamed by her side, 

9 


124 


THE DAYS OF BKUCE. 


and a gigantic form fully armed had grasped her arm. 
“ Unhand me, or I will summon those that will force thee. 
I am not alone, and bethink thee, insult to me will pass 
not with impunity.” 

The man laughed scornfully. “ Boldly answered, fair 
one,” he said ; “ of a truth thou art a brave one. I grieve 
such an office should descend upon me as the detention of 
so stout a heart; yet even so. In King Edward’s name, 
you are my prisoner.” 

“Your prisoner, and wherefore?” demanded the count- 
ess, believing that calmness would be a better protection 
than any symptoms of fear. “ You are mistaken, good 
friend, I knew not Edward warred with women.” 

“ Prove my mistake, fair mistress, and I will crave your 
pardon,” replied the man. “We have certain intelligence 
that a party of Scottish rebels, their quondam king perhaps 
among them, are hidden in these mountains. Give us 
trusty news of their movements, show us their track, and 
Edward will hold you in high favor, and grant liberty and 
rich presents in excuse of his servant’s too great vigilance. 
Hearest thou, what is the track of these rebels — what their 
movements ? ” 

“ Thou art a sorry fool, Murdock,” retorted another voice, 
ere the countess could reply, and hastily glancing around, 
she beheld herself surrounded by armed men ; “ a sorry fool, 
an thou wastest the precious darkness thus. Is not one 
rank rebel sufficient, think you, to satisfy our lord ? he will 
get intelligence enough out of her, be sure. Isabella of 
Buchan is not fool enough to hold parley with such as we, 
rely on’t.” 

A suppressed exclamation of exultation answered the 
utterance of that name, and without further parley the 
arms of the countess were strongly pinioned, and with the 
quickness of thought the man who had first spoken raised 
her in his arms, and bore her through the thickest brush- 
wood and wildest crags in quite the contrary direction to 
the encampment; their movements accelerated by the fact 
that, ere her arms were confined, the countess, with ad- 
mirable presence of mind, had raised to her lips a silver 
whistle attached to her girdle, and blown a shrill, distinct 
blast. A moment sufficed to rudely tear it from her hand, 
and hurry her off as we have said; and when that call was 
answered, which it was as soon as the men scattered on the 
mountain sufficiently recognized the sound, they flung 
down their tools and sprung to the side whence it came, but 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


125 


there was no sign, no trace of her they sought ; they scoured 
with lighted torches every mossy path or craggy slope, but 
in vain; places of concealment were too numerous, the 
darkness too intense, save just the space illumined by the 
torch, to permit success. The trampling of horses an- 
nounced the return of the king and his companions, ere 
their search was concluded ; his bugle summoned the strag- 
glers, and speedily the loss of the countess was ascertained, 
their fruitless search narrated, and anxiety and alarm 
spread over the minds of all. The agony of the youthful 
Alan surpassed description, even the efforts of his sovereign 
failed to calm him. ISTor was the Bruce himself much less 
agitated. 

“ She did wrong, she did wrong,” he said, “ to leave 
herself so long unguarded; yet who was there to commit 
this outrage? There is some treachery here, which we 
must sift; we must not leave our noble countrywoman in 
the hands of these marauders. Trust me, Alan, we shall re- 
cover her yet.” 

But the night promised ill for the fulfilment of this 
trust. Many hours passed in an utterly fruitless search, 
and about one hour before midnight a thick fog increased 
the dense gloom, and even prevented all assistance from the 
torches, for not ten yards before them was distinguishable. 
Dispirited and disappointed, the king and his companions 
threw themselves around the watchfires, in gloomy medita- 
tion, starting at the smallest sound, and determined to re- 
new their search with the first gleam of dawn ; the hurried 
pace of Alan, as he strode up and down, for he could not 
rest, alone disturbing the stillness all around. 


CHAPTEE XIII. 

It was already two hours after midnight when a hurried 
tread, distinct from Alan’s restless pacing, disturbed the 
watchers, and occasioned many to raise themselves on their 
elbows and listen. 

It came nearer and nearer, and very soon a young lad, 
recognized as Sir Alan’s page, was discerned, springing 
from crag to crag in breathless haste, and finally threw him- 
self at his sovereign’s feet. 


126 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


“ It is not too late — up, up, and save her ! ” were the 
only words he had power to gasp, panting painfully for the 
breath of which speed had deprived him. His hair and 
dress were heavy with the damp occasioned by the fog, and 
his whole appearance denoting no common agitation. 

“ Where ? ” “ How ? ” “ What knowest thou ? ” “ Speak 
out.” “ What ailest thee, boy ? ” were the eager words ut- 
tered at once by all, and the king and others sprung to their 
feet, while Alan laid a heavy hand on the boy’s shoulder, 
and glared on him in silence; the lad’s glance fell beneath 
his, and he sobbed forth : 

“ Mercy, mercy ! my thoughtlessness has done this, yet I 
guessed not, dreamed not this ill would follow. But oh, 
do not wait for my tale now ; up, up, and save her ere it be 
too late ! ” 

“ And how may we trust thee now, an this is the effect 
of former treachery ? ” demanded Robert, with a sternness 
that seemed to awe the terrified boy into composure. 

“ I am not treacherous, sire. Ho, no ! I would have ex- 
posed my throat to your grace’s sword rather than do a 
traitor’s deed: trust me, oh, trust me, and follow without 
delay ! ” 

“ Speak first, and clearly,” answered Alan, fiercely ; 
“ even for my mother’s sake the sacred person of the King 
of Scotland shall not be risked by a craven’s word. Speak, 
an thou wouldst bid me trust thee- — speak, I charge thee.” 

“ He is right — he is right ; let him explain this mystery 
ere we follow,” echoed round ; and thus urged, the boy’s tale 
was hurriedly told. 

It was simply this. Some days previous, when wander- 
ing alone about the rocks, he had met a woodman, whom he 
recognized as one of the retainers of Buchan, and. as such, 
believed him as loyal and faithful to King Robert’s interest 
as himself and others in the countess’s train. The man had 
artfully evaded all young Malcolm’s expression of astonish- 
ment and inquiries as to why Donald MacAlpine, whom he 
well knew to be one of the stoutest and most sturdy men- 
at-arms which the clan possessed, should have taken to so 
peaceful an employment as cutting wood, and skilfully drew 
from the boy much information concerning the movements 
of the party to whom he belonged. Malcolm freely spoke 
of Sir Alan and the Countess of Buchan, dilating with no 
little pleasure on his young master having received knight- 
hood at the hand of his king, and all the honors and de- 
lights which accompanied it. Aware, however, of the 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


127 


dangers which environed the Bruce, he spoke of him more 
cautiously, and the more Donald sought to discover if the 
king were near at hand, the more carefully did Malcolm 
conceal that he was, telling the woodman if he wished to 
know all particulars, he had better turn his sickle into a 
spear, his cap into a helmet, and strike a good blow for 
Scotland and King Robert. This the man refused to do, 
alleging he loved his own sturdy person and independent 
freedom too well to run his neck into such a noose; that 
King Robert might do very well for a while, but eventually 
he must fall into King Edward’s hands. Malcolm angrily 
denied this, and they parted, not the best of friends im- 
aginable. On reviewing all that had passed, the boy re- 
proached himself incessantly for having said too much, and 
was continually tormented by an indefinable fear that some 
evil would follow. This fear kept him by the side of the 
countess, instead of, as was his wont, following Sir Alan 
to the chase. The increasing darkness had concealed her 
from him, but he was the first to distinguish her whistle. 
He had reached the spot time enough to recognize the sup- 
posed woodman in the second speaker, and to feel with 
painful acuteness his boyish thoughtlessness had brought 
this evil on a mistress, to serve whom he would willingly 
have laid down his life. Resistance he knew, on his part, 
was utterly useless, and therefore he determined to follow 
their track, and thus bring accurate intelligence to the 
king. The minds of the men preoccupied by the thought 
of their distinguished prisoner, and the thickening gloom, 
aided his resolution. Happening to have a quantity of 
thick flax in his pocket, the boy, with admirable foresight, 
fastened it to different shrubs and stones as he passed, and 
thus secured his safe return; a precaution very necessary, 
as from the windings and declivities, and in parts well-nigh 
impregnable hollows, into which he followed the men, his 
return in time would have been utterly frustrated. 

The gathering mist had occasioned a halt, and a consul- 
tation as to whether they could reach the encampment to 
which they belonged, or whether it would not be better to 
halt till dawn. They had decided in favor of the latter, 
fearing, did they continue marching, they might lose their 
track, and perhaps fall in with the foe. He had waited, he 
said, till he saw them making such evident preparations for 
a halt of some hours, that he felt certain they would not 
remove till daylight. It was a difficult and precarious path, 
he said, yet he was quite sure he could lead fifteen or 


128 


THE DAYS OF BIIUCE. 


twenty men easily to the spot, and, taken by surprise, noth- 
ing would prevent the recovery of the countess: less than 
two hours would take them there. 

This tale was told in less time than we have taken to 
transcribe it, and not twenty minutes after Malcolm’s first 
appearance, the king and Sir Alan, with fifteen tried fol- 
lowers, departed on their expedition. There had been 
some attempt to dissuade the king from venturing his own 
person where further treachery might yet lurk, but the 
attempt was vain. 

“ She has perilled her life for me,” was his sole an- 
swer, “ and were there any real peril, mine would be haz- 
arded for her ; but there is none — ’tis but a child’s work we 
are about to do, not even glory enough to call for envy.” 

The fog had sufficiently cleared to permit of their dis- 
tinguishing the route marked out by Malcolm, but not 
enough to betray their advance, even had there been scouts 
set to watch the pass. Not a word passed between them. 
Rapidly, stealthily they advanced, and about three in the 
morning stood within sight of their foes, though still un- 
seen themselves. There was little appearance of caution: 
two large fires had been kindled, round one of which ten or 
twelve men were stretched their full length, still armed in- 
deed, and their hands clasping their unsheathed swords, 
but their senses fast locked in slumber. Near the other, 
her arms and feet pinioned, Alan, with a heart beating 
almost audibly with indignation, recognized his mother. 
Two men, armed with clubs, walked up and down beside 
her, and seven others were grouped in various attitudes 
at her feet, most of them fast asleep. It was evident that 
they had no idea of surprise, and that their only fear was 
associated with the escape of their prisoner. 

“ They are little more than man to man,” said the 
Bruce ; “ therefore is there no need for further surprise 
than will attend the blast of your bugle, Sir Alan. Sound 
the reveille, and on to the rescue.” 

He was obeyed, and the slumberers, with suppressed 
oaths, started to their feet, glancing around them a brief 
minute in inquiring astonishment as to whence the sound 
came. It was speedily explained: man after man sprang 
through the thicket, and rushed upon the foes, several of 
whom, gathering themselves around their prisoner, seemed 
determined that her liberty should not be attained with 
her life, more than once causing the swords of the Bruce’s 
followers to turn aside in their rapid descent, less they 


THE DAYS OF BEUCE. 


129 


should injure her they sought to save. Like a young lion 
Alan fought, ably seconded by the king, whose gigantic 
efforts clearing his path, at length enabled himself and 
Alan to stand uninjured beside the countess, and thus 
obtain possession of her person, and guard her from the 
injury to which her captors voluntarily exposed her. There 
was at first no attempt at flight, although the Bruce’s men 
carried all before them; the men fell where they stood, till 
only five remained, and these, after a moment’s hesitation, 
turned and fled. A shrill cry from Malcolm had turned 
the king’s and Alan’s attention in another direction, and it 
was well they did so. Determined on foiling the efforts 
of his foes, Donald MacAlpine, who was supposed to be 
among the fallen, had stealthily approached the spot where 
the countess, overcome with excessive faintness, still re- 
clined, then noiselessly rising, his sword was descending on 
her unguarded head, when Alan, aroused by Malcolm’s 
voice, turned upon him and dashed his weapon from his 
grasp, at the same minute that the Bruce’s sword pierced 
the traitor’s heart: he sprung in the air with a loud yell 
of agony, and fell, nearly crushing the countess with his 
weight. 

It was the voice of Alan which aroused that fainting 
heart. It was in the bosom of her son those tearful eyes 
were hid, after one startled and bewildered gaze on the 
countenance of her sovereign, who had been leaning over 
her in unfeigned anxiety. A thicket of thorn, mingled 
with crags, divided her from the unseemly signs of the late 
affray; but though there was naught to renew alarm, it 
was with a cold shudder she had clung to her son, as if 
even her firm, bold spirit had given way. Gently, cheer- 
ingly the king addressed her, and she evidently struggled 
to regain composure; but her powers of body were evi- 
dently so prostrated, that her friends felt rest of some 
kind she must have, ere she could regain sufficient strength 
to accompany them on their wanderings. She had re- 
ceived three or four wounds in the melee , which though 
slight, the loss of blood that had followed materially in- 
creased her weakness, and the king anxiously summoned 
his friends around him to deliberate on the best measures 
to pursue. 

Among them were two of Sir Alan’s retainers, old and 
faithful Scottish men, coeval with his grandfather, the 
late Earl of Buchan. Devoted alike to the countess, the 
king, and their country, they eagerly listened to all that 


130 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


was passing, declaring that rather than leave the Lady Isa- 
bella in a situation of such danger as the present, they 
would take it by turns to carry her in their arms to the 
encampment. The king listened with a benevolent smile. 

“ Is there no hut or house, or hunting-lodge to which 
we could convey your lady,” he asked, “ where she might 
find quieter shelter and greater rest than hitherto? An 
ye knew of such, it would be the wiser plan to seek it at 
break of day.” 

A hunting-lodge, belonging to the Earls of Buchan, 
there was, or ought to be, the old men said, near the head 
of the Tay, just at the entrance of Athol Forest. It had 
not been used since their old master’s days; he had been 
very partial to it when a boy, and was continually there ; it 
had most likely fallen into decay from disuse, as they be- 
lieved the present earl did not even know of its existence, 
but that was all the better, as it would be a still more 
safe and secure retreat for the countess, and they were 
sure, when once out of the hollows and intricacies of their 
present halting-place, they could easily discover the path 
to it. 

And how long did they think it would be, the king 
inquired, before their lady could be taken to it ? the sooner, 
they must perceive as well as himself, the better for her 
comfort. He was relieved when they declared that two 
days, or at the very utmost three, would bring them there, 
if, as the old men earnestly entreated he would, they re- 
traced their steps to the encampment as soon as daylight 
was sufficiently strong for them clearly to distinguish their 
path. This was unanimously resolved on, and the few 
intervening hours were spent by the countess in calm re- 
pose. 

Conscious that filial affection watched over her, the 
sleep of the countess tranquillized her sufficiently to com- 
mence the return to the encampment with less painful evi- 
dences of exhaustion. A rude litter waited for her, in 
which she could recline when the pass allowed its safe 
passage, and which could be easily borne by the bearers 
when the intricacies of the path prevented all egress save 
by pedestrianism. It had been hurriedly made by her de- 
voted adherents, and soothed and gratified, her usual en- 
ergy seemed for the moment to return. By nine o’clock 
forenoon all traces of the Bruce and his party had de- 
parted from the glen, the last gleam of their armor was 
lost in the winding path, and then it was that a man, who 


THE DAYS OF BKUCE. 


131 


had lain concealed in a thicket from the moment of the 
affray, hearing all that had passed, unseen himself, now 
slowly, cautiously raised himself on his knees, gazed care- 
fully round him, then with a quicker but as silent motion 
sprung to his feet, and raised his hands in an action of 
triumph. 

“ He is among them, then,” he muttered, “ the traitor 
Bruce himself. This is well. The countess, her son, and 
the would-be king — ha ! ha ! My fortune’s made ! ” and he 
bounded away in quite a contrary direction to that taken 
by the Bruce. 

The old retainers of Buchan were correct in their sur- 
mises. The evening of the second day succeeding the 
event we have narrated brought them to the hunting-lodge. 
It was indeed very old, and parts had fallen almost to ruins, 
but there were still three or four rooms remaining, whose 
compact walls and well-closed roofs rendered them a warm 
and welcome refuge for the Countess of Buchan, whose 
strenuous exertions the two preceding days had ended, as 
was expected, by exhaustion more painful and overpower- 
ing than before. 

The exertions of her friends — for the Bruce and his 
followers with one consent had permitted their wanderings 
to be guided by the old men — speedily rendered the apart- 
ments habitable. Large fires were soon blazing on the 
spacious hearths, and ere night fell, all appearance of 
damp and discomfort had vanished. The frugal supper 
was that night a jovial meal; the very look of a cheerful 
blaze beneath a walled roof was reviving to the wanderers ; 
the jest passed round, the wine-cup sparkled to the health 
of the countess, and many a fervent aspiration echoed 
round for the speedy restoration of her strength, for truly 
she was the beloved, the venerated of all, alike from her 
sovereign to his lowest follower. 

“ Trust my experience, my young knight,” had been 
the Bruce’s address to Alan ere they parted for the night. 
“ A few days’ complete repose will quite restore your 
valued parent and my most honored friend. This hunt- 
ing-lodge shall be our place of rendezvous for a time, till 
she is sufficiently restored to accompany us southward. 
You are satisfied, are you not, with the diligence of our 
scouts ? ” 

“ Perfectly, your highness,” was Alan’s reply ; for well- 
tried and intelligent men had been sent in every direction 
to discover, if possible, to what party of the enemy the 


132 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


captors of the Lady Isabella belonged, and to note well the 
movements and appearance, not only of any martial force, 
but of the country people themselves. They had executed 
their mission as well as the intricate passes and concealed 
hollows of the mountains permitted, and brought back the 
welcome intelligence, that for miles round the country was 
perfectly clear, and to all appearance peaceful. The hunt- 
ing-lodge, too, was so completely hidden by dark woods of 
pine and overhanging crags, that even had there been foes 
prowling about the mountains, they might pass within 
twenty yards of its vicinity and yet fail to discover it. 
The very path leading to the bottom of the hollow in which 
it stood was concealed at the entrance by thick shrubs and 
an arch of rock, which had either fallen naturally into that 
shape, or been formed by the architects of the lodge. It 
seemed barely possible that the retreat could be discovered, 
except by the basest treachery, and therefore the king and 
Sir Alan felt perfectly at rest regarding the safety of the 
countess, even though they could only leave with her a 
guard of some twenty or thirty men. 

So much was she refreshed the following morning, 
that the hopes of her son brightened, and with that filial 
devotion so peculiarly his characteristic, he easily obtained 
leave of absence from his sovereign, to remain by the 
couch of his mother for at least that day, instead of ac- 
companying him, as was his wont, in the expeditions of 
the day. The countess combated this decision, but in 
vain. Alan was resolved. He was convinced, he said, her 
former capture, and all its ill consequences, would not 
have taken place had he been by her side; and even were 
she not now exposed to such indignity, she would be lonely 
and sad without him, and stay, in consequence, he would. 
The king and his officers approved of the youth’s resolu- 
tion, and reluctantly Isabella yielded. 

About two hours before noon the Bruce and his com- 
panions departed, desiring Sir Alan not to expect their 
return till near midnight, as they intended penetrating a 
part of the country which had not yet been explored ; they 
might be a few hours sooner, but they scarcely expected it. 
It was afterward remembered that a peculiar expression of 
sadness overclouded the countenance of the countess, as 
for a moment she fixed her speaking eyes on the king’s face 
when he cheerfully bade her farewell, and said, in a low 
emphatic voice : 

“ Farewell, sire! It may be the hour of meeting is 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


133 


longer deferred than we either of us now believe. Fain 
would I beseech you grace to grant me one boon, make me 
but one promise ere you depart.” 

“ Any boon, any promise that our faithful friend and 
subject can demand, is granted ere ’tis asked,” answered 
the king, without a moment’s pause, though startled alike 
at the expression of her features and the sadness of her 
voice. “ Gladly would we give any pledge that could in 
any way bespeak our warm sense of thy true merit, lady, 
therefore speak, and fear not.” 

“ ’Tis simply this, sire,” she said, and her voice was 
still mournful, despite her every effort to prevent its be- 
ing so. “ Should unforeseen evil befall me, captivity, 
danger of death, or aught undreamed of now, give me your 
royal word as a knight and king, that you will not peril 
your sacred person, and with it the weal and liberty of 
our unhappy country, for my sake, but leave me to my 
fate; ’tis a strange and fanciful boon, yet, gracious sover- 
eign, refuse it not. I mean not treachery such as we have 
encountered, where your grace’s noble gallantry rescued 
me with little peril to yourself. No; I mean other and 
greater danger; where I well know that rather than leave 
me exposed to the wrath of my husband and Edward of 
England, you would risk your own precious life, and with 
it the liberty of Scotland. Grant me this boon, my liege, 
and perchance this heavy weight upon my spirit will pass 
and leave me free.” 

“Nay, ’tis such a strange and unknightly promise, 
lady, how may I pledge my word to its fulfilment ? ” an- 
swered Robert, gravely and sadly. “ You bid me pledge 
mine honor to a deed that will stain my name with an 
everlasting infamy, that even the liberty of Scotland will 
not wash away. How may I do this thing? You press me 
sorely, lady. Even for thee, good and faithful as thou art, 
how may I hurt my knightly fame ? ” 

“ Sire, thou wilt not,” she returned, still more entreat- 
ingly ; “ thy brilliant fame, thy noble name, will never — 
can never, receive a stain. I do but ask a promise whose 
fulfilment may never be demanded. I do but bid thee re- 
member thou art not only a knight, a noble, a king, but 
one by whom the preservation, the independence of our 
country can alone be achieved — one on whose safety and 
freedom depends the welfare of a nation, the unchained 
glory of her sons. Were death thy portion, Scotland lies 
a slave forever at the feet of England, and therefore is it 


134 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


I do besech thee, King of Scotland, make me this pledge. 
I know thy noble spirit well, and I know thy too chivalric 
honor would blind thee to a sense of danger, to a sense of 
country, duty, glory, of all save the rescue of one who, 
though she be faithful to thee and to her country, is but as 
a drop of water in the ocean, compared to other claims. 
My liege, thy word is already in part pledged,” she con- 
tinued, more proudly. “ Any pledge or promise I might 
demand is granted ere it is asked, your highness deigned 
to say; thou canst not retract it now.” 

“ And wherefore shouldst thou, royal brother ? ” cheer- 
ingly interrupted Alexander Bruce. “ The Lady Isabella 
asks not unreasonably; she does but suggest what may be, 
although that may be is, as we all know, next to impos- 
sible, particularly now when nature has fortified this pleas- 
ant lodge even as would a garrison of some hundred men. 
Come, be not so churlish in thy favors, good my liege; 
give her the pledge she demands, and be sure its fulfilment 
will never be required.” 

“ Could I but think so,” he replied, still gravely. 
“ Lady, I do entreat thee, tell me wherefore thou demand- 
est this strange boon; fearest thou evil — dreamest thou 
aught of danger hovering near? If so, as there is a God 
in heaven, I will not go forth to-day ! ” 

“ Pardon me, gracious sovereign,” answered Isabella, 
evasively ; “ I ask it, because since the late adventure there 
has been a weight upon my spirit as if I, impotent, of little 
consequence as I am, yet even I might be the means of 
hurling down evil on thy head, and through thee on Scot- 
land ; and, therefore, until thy promise to the effect I have 
specified is given, I cannot, I will not rest — even though, 
as Lord Alexander justly believes, its fulfilment will never 
be required. Evil here, my liege, trust me, cannot be; 
therefore go forth in confidence. I fear not to await your 
return, e’en should I linger here alone. Grant but my 
boon.” 

“ Kay, an it must be lady, I promise all thou demand- 
est,” answered Bruce, more cheerfully, for her words re- 
assured him ; “ but, by mine honor, thou hast asked neither 
well nor kindly. Remember, my pledge is passed but for 
real danger, and that only for Scotland’s sake, not for 
mine own; and now farewell, lady. I trust, ere we meet 
again, these depressing fancies will have left thee.” 

“ They have well-nigh departed now, my liege ; ’twas 
simply for thee and Scotland these heavy bodings op- 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


135 


pressed me. My son,” she added, after a brief pause, “ I 
would your highness could prevail on him to accompany 
you to-day. Wherefore should he stay with me ? ” 

“ Wherefore not rather, lady % ” replied the king, smil- 
ing. “ I may not leave thee to thine own thoughts to 
weave fresh boons like to the last. No, no ! our young 
knight must guard thee till we meet again,” and with these 
words he departed. They did not, however, deter the 
countess from resuming her persuasions to Alan to accom- 
pany his sovereign, but without success. Isabella of 
Buchan had, however, in this instance departed from her 
usual strict adherence to the truth; she did not feel so 
secure that no evil would befall her in the absence of the 
Bruce, as she had endeavored to make him believe. 

Some words she had caught during her brief captivity 
caused her, she scarcely knew why, to believe that the 
Earl of Buchan himself was in the neighborhood; nay, 
that the very party which had captured her were members 
of the army under his command. She had gathered, too, 
that it was a very much larger force than the king’s, and 
therefore it was that she had made no objection to Bobert’s 
wish that she should rest some few days in the hunting- 
lodge. She knew that, however her failing strength might 
detain and harass their movements, Bruce and his fol- 
lowers would never consent to leave her, unless, as in the 
present case, under a comparatively comfortable roof and 
well-concealed shelter; and she knew, too, that however 
she might struggle to accompany them in their wander- 
ings, the struggle in her present exhausted state would 
be utterly in vain, and lingering for her might expose 
her sovereign to a renewal of the ills with which he had 
already striven so nobly, and perchance to yet more ir- 
reparable misfortune. The information of the scouts had 
partially reassured her, at least to the fact that no imme- 
diate danger was to be apprehended, and for a while she 
indulged the hope that safety might be found in this 
hidden spot until the peril passed. She had full confidence 
in the fidelity of the old retainers who had guided them 
to the spot, and sought to feel satisfied that its vicinity 
was unknown to the earl, her husband; but, whether from 
the restlessness of a slight degree of fever, or from that 
nervous state of mind attendant on worn-out strength, ere 
the Bruce departed the same foreboding came on her 
again, and all her desire was the absence of her sovereign 
and his followers, to have some hold upon his almost too 


136 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


exalted sense of chivalry, which would prevent any rash 
act of daring on his part; and this, as we have seen, she 
obtained. 

Could she but have prevailed on her son to accompany 
them, she would calmly and resignedly have awaited her 
fate, whatever it might be; but the horror of beholding 
him a prisoner in the hands of his father — that father per- 
haps so enraged at the boy’s daring opposition to his will 
and political opinions, that he would give him up at once 
to the wrath of Edward — was a picture of anguish from 
which her mind revolted in such intense suffering, she 
could not rest. She strove with the fancy; she sought to 
rouse every energy, to feel secure in her present resting- 
place. But who can resist the influence of feelings such as 
these ? What mother’s heart cannot enter into the emotions 
of Isabella of Buchan, as she gazed on her noble boy, im- 
proved as he was in manliness and beauty, and with the 
dread anticipation of evil, believing only absence could pro- 
tect him; that perchance the very love which kept him by 
her side would expose him to danger, imprisonment, and 
death ? She did not speak her fears, but Alan vainly sought 
to soothe that unwonted restlessness. She had endeavored to 
secure the Bruce’s safety by the aid of Malcolm, the young 
page, by whose instrumentality she had been both captured 
and released. Taking advantage of Sir Alan’s absence, she 
had called the boy to her side, and made him promise that, 
at the first manifest sign of danger, he would make his 
escape, which, by his extreme agility and address, would 
easily be achieved, seek the king, and give him exact infor- 
mation of the numbers, strength, and situation of the foes, 
reminding him, at the same time, of his solemn pledge. She 
made him promise the profoundest secrecy, and adjured 
him at all hazards to save the king. 

The boy, affected by the solemnity of her manner, prom- 
ised faithfully to observe her minutest sign, and on the 
re-entrance of Sir Alan departed, to marvel wherefore his 
lady should so have spoken, and examine the localities 
around, as to the best means of concealment and escape. 

The hours waned, and night fell, as is usual in October, 
some five hours after noon, the gloom perhaps greatly in- 
creased by the deep shades in which their place of conceal- 
ment lay. Sir Alan roused the fire to a cheerful blaze, and 
lighting a torch of pine-wood, placed it in an iron bracket 
projecting from the wall, and amused himself by polishing 
his arms, and talking in that joyous tone his mother so loved, 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


137 


on every subject that his affection fancied might interest and 
amuse her. He was wholly unarmed, except his sword, 
which, secured to his waist by a crimson sash, he never laid 
aside; and fair and graceful to his mother’s eye did he look 
in his simple doublet of Lincoln-green, cut and slashed with 
ruby velvet, his dark curls clustering round his bare throat, 
and his bright face beaming in all the animation of youth 
and health, spiritualized by the deeper feelings of his soul; 
and she, too, was still beautiful, though her frame was 
slighter, her features more attenuated than when we first 
beheld her. He had insisted on her reclining on the couch, 
and drawn from her otherwise painful thoughts by his ani- 
mated sallies, smiles circled her pale lip, and her sorrows 
were a while forgotten. 

An hour, perhaps rather more, elapsed, and found the 
mother and son still as we have described. There had been 
no sound without, but about that period many heavy foot- 
steps might have been distinguished, cautiously, it seemed, 
advancing. Alan started up and listened; the impatient 
neigh of a charger was heard, and then voices suppressed, 
yet, as he fancied, familiar. 

“ King Robert returned already ! ” he exclaimed ; “ they 
must have had an unusually successful chase. I must e’en 
seek them and inquire.” 

“ Alan ! my child ! ” He started at the voice, it was so 
unlike his mother’s. She had risen and flung her arm 
around him with a pressure so convulsive, he looked at her 
with terror. There was no time to answer; a sudden noise 
usurped the place of the previous stillness — a struggle — a 
heavy fall; the door was flung rudely open, and an armed 
man stood upon the threshold, his visor up, but even had it 
not been, the heart of the countess too truly told her she 
gazed upon her husband ! 


CHAPTER XIV. 

A brief pause followed the entrance of this unexpected 
visitor. Standing upon the threshold, his dark brow knit, 
his eyes fixed on his prisoners, the Earl of Buchan stood a 
few minutes immovable. Alan saw but a mail-clad warrior, 
more fierce and brutal in appearance than the generality of 


138 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


their foes, and felt, with all that heart-sinking despondency 
natural to youth, that they were betrayed, that resistance 
was in vain, for heavier and louder grew the tramp of horse 
and man, and the narrow passage, discernible through the 
open door, was filled with steel-clad forms, their drawn 
swords glancing in the torch-light, their dark brows gleam- 
ing in ill-concealed triumph. Alan was still a boy in years, 
despite his experience as a warrior, and in the first agony 
of this discovery, the first dream of chains and captivity, 
when his young spirit revelled in the thought of freedom, 
and joyed as a bird in the fresh air of mount and stream, 
weaving bright hopes, not exile or wandering could re- 
move, his impulse had been to dash his useless sword in 
anguish to the earth, and weep ; but the sight of his mother 
checked that internal weakness. He felt her convulsive 
clasp ; he beheld the expression on her features — how unlike 
their wont — terror, suffering, whose entire cause he vainly 
endeavored to define, and he roused himself for her. And 
she, did she see more than her son? She Jcnew that face, 
and as she gazed, she felt hope had departed; she beheld 
naught but a long, endless vista of anguish ; yet she felt not 
for herself, she thought but of her child. And the earl, can 
we define his exulting mood? — it was the malice, the tri- 
umph of a fiend. 

“ Who and what art thou ? ” demanded Alan, fiercely, 
laying his right hand on his sword, and with the left firmly 
clasping his mother’s waist. “ What bold knight and hon- 
orable chevalier art thou, thus seeking by stealth the retreat 
of a wanderer, and overpowering by numbers and treachery 
men, who on the field thou and such as thou had never dared 
to meet ? ” 

The earl laughed; that bitter, biting laugh of contempt 
and triumph so difficult to bear. 

“ Thou hast a worthy tongue, my pretty springald,” said 
he ; “ canst thou use thy sword as bravely ? Who and what 
am I? Ask of the lady thou hast so caressingly encircled 
with thine arm, perchance she can give thee information.” 

Alan started, a cold thrill passed through his frame, as 
the real cause of his mother’s terror flashed on his mind; 
her lips, parched and quivering, parted as to speak, but 
there was no sound. 

“ Mother,” he said, “ mother, speak to thy son. Why, 
why art thou thus? it is not the dread of imprisonment, of 
death. Ho, no; they have no terrors for such as thee. 
Who is this man ? ” 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


139 


Engrossed in his own agitation, Alan had not heard the 
muttered exclamation which burst from Buchan’s lips with 
his first words, for great was the earl’s surprise as he looked 
on his son ; the impression he w T as still a child had remained 
on his mind despite all reports to the contrary, but no softer 
feeling obtained dominion. 

“ Who and what am I ? ” he continued, after a brief 
pause. “ Wouldst thou know, Alan of Buchan? Even a 
faithful knight, soldier, and subject of his Royal Highness 
Edward, king of England and Scotland, and consequently 
thy foe ; the insulted and dishonored husband of the woman 
thou callest mother, and consequently thy father, young 
man. Ha! have I spoken home? Thy sword, thy sword; 
acknowledge thy disloyalty to thy father and king, and for 
thee all may yet be well.” 

“ Never ! ” answered Alan proudly, the earl’s concluding 
words rousing the spirit which the knowledge of beholding 
his father and the emotion of his mother seemed to have 
crushed. “ Never, Lord of Buchan ! for father I cannot 
call thee. Thou mayest force me to resign my sword, thou 
mayest bring me to the block, but acknowledge allegiance 
to a foreign tyrant, who hath no claims on Scotland or her 
sons, save those of hate and detestation, that thou canst 
never do, even if thy sword be pointed at my heart.” 

“ Boy ! ” burst from the earl’s lips, in accents of irre- 
pressible rage, but he checked himself ; “ thou hast learned 
a goodly lesson of disobedience and daring, of a truth, and 
I should tender grateful thanks to thy most worthy, most 
efficient and virtuous teacher,” he added, in his own bitterly 
sarcastic tone. “ The Lady Isabella deems, perchance, she 
has done her duty to her husband in placing a crown on 
the head of his hereditary and hated foe, and leading his 
son in the same path of rebellion and disloyalty, and giving 
his service to the murderer of his kinsman.” 

“ Earl of Buchan, I have done my duty alike to my 
country and my son,” replied the countess, her high spirit 
roused by the taunts of her husband. “ According to the 
dictates of my conscience, mine honor as a Scottish woman, 
the mother of a Scottish warrior, I have done my duty, and 
neither imprisonment, nor torture, nor death will bid me re- 
tract those principles, or waver in my acknowledgment of 
Scotland and her king. Pardon me, my lord; but there is 
no rebellion in resisting the infringement of a tyrant, no 
disloyalty in raising the standard against Edward, for there 
is no treason when there is no lawful authority; and by 
10 


140 


THE DxVYS OF BRUCE. 


what right is Edward of England king of Scotland? Lord 
of Buchan, I have done my duty. As my father taught me 
I have taught my child ! ” 

“ Regarding, of course, madam, all which that child’s 
father would have taught him, particularly that most Chris- 
tian virtue returning good for evil, as in the fact of aveng- 
ing the death of a kinsman with the gift of a crown. Oh ! 
thou hast done well, most intrinsically well.” 

“ I own no relationship with a traitor,” burst impetu- 
ously from Alan. “ Sir John Comyn was honored in his 
death, for the sword of the Bruce was too worthy a weapon 
for the black heart of a traitor. Lord of Buchan, we are in 
thy power, it is enough. Hadst thou wished thy son to im- 
bibe thy peculiar principles, to forget his country and her 
rights, it had been better perchance hadst thou remembered 
thou hadst a child — a son. Had the duty of a father been 
performed, perchance I had not now forgotten mine as a 
son! As it is, we stand as strangers and as foes. Against 
thee in truth I will not raise my sword ; but further, we are 
severed and forever ! ” He crossed his arms proudly on his 
bosom, and returned the dark, scowling glance of his father 
with a flashing eye, and a mien as firm and nobler than his 
own. 

“ It is well, young man ; I thank you for my freedom,” 
returned the earl, between his teeth. “ As my son, I might 
stand between thee and Edward’s wrath; as a stranger and 
my foe, why, whate’er his sentence be — the axe and block 
without doubt — let it work, it will move me little.” 

“ Heed not his rash words, in mercy, heed them not ! ” 
exclaimed the countess, her voice of agony contrasting 
strangely with its former proud reserve. “ Neglected, for- 
gotten him as thou hast, yet, Lord of Buchan, he is still thy 
son. Oh, in mercy, expose him not to the deadly wrath of Ed- 
ward ! Thou canst save him, thou canst give him freedom. 
It is I — I who am the attainted traitor, not my child. Give 
me up to Edward, and he will heed not, ask not for thy son. 
It is I who have offended him and thee, not my child. Art 
thou not a Scottish noble, descendant of a house as purely 
loyal and devoted to their country as mine own — art thou 
not indeed this man, and yet hath Edward, the deadly foe 
of thy race, thy land, thy countrymen, more exalted claims 
than thine own blood? No, no, it cannot be! thou wilt re- 
lent, thou wilt have mercy; let him be but free, and do 
with me even what thou wilt ! ” 

“ Free! go free! ” repeated the earl, with a hoarse laugh, 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


141 


ere Alan could interfere. “ Let him go free, forsooth, when 
he tells me he is my foe, and will go hence and join my 
bitterest enemies the moment he is free. Go free! and who 
art thou who askest this boon? Hast thou such claims 
upon me, that for thy pleasure I should give freedom to thy 
son ? ” 

“ My lord, my lord, ’tis for thine own sake, for his, thy 
child as well as mine, I do beseech, implore thy mercy? 
draw not the curse of Heaven on thy heart by exposing him 
to death. Thou wilt know and feel him as indeed thy child 
when he lies bleeding before thee, when thine own hand 
hath forged the death-bolt, and then, then it will be too 
late; thou wilt yearn for his voice in vain. Oh! is it not 
sufficient triumph to have in thy power the wife who hath 
dared thy authority, who hath joined the patriot band, and 
so drawn down on her the vengeance of Edward? The 
price of a traitor is set upon her head. My lord, my lord, is 
not one victim enough — will not my capture insure thee 
reward and honor in the court of Edward? Then do with 
me what thou wilt — chains, torture, death; but my child, 
my brave boy — oh, if thou hast one spark of mercy in thy 
heart, let him go ! ” 

“ Mother,” hoarsely murmured Alan, as he strove to 
raise her from her suppliant posture, “ mother, this shall 
not be ! look upon that face and know thou pleadest in vain. 
I will not accept my freedom at such a price ; thy knee, thy 
supplications unto a heart of stone, for me! No, no; moth- 
er, dear mother, we will die together ! ” 

“ Thou shalt not, thou shalt not, my beloved, my beauti- 
ful ! thy death will be on my head, though it come from a 
father’s hand. I will plead, I will be heard! My lord, my 
lord,” she continued, wrought to a pitch of agonized feeling, 
no heart save that to which she pleaded could have heard 
unmoved, “ I ask but his freedom, the freedom of a boy, a 
child — and of whom do I ask it ? — of his father, his own fa- 
ther! Speak to me, answer me; thou canst not be so lost 
to the voice, the feelings of nature. For the sake of the 
mother who loved, the father who blessed thee , whose bless- 
ing hallowed our union and smiled on our infant boy, have 
mercy on me, on thyself — let him, oh, let him be free ! ” 

“ Mercy on thee, thou false and perjured woman ! ” the 
earl burst forth, the cold sarcastic expression with which he 
had at first listened to her impassioned entreaties giving 
way to the fearful index of ungoverned rage ; “ on thee, 
thou false traitress, not alone to thy husband’s principles 


142 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


but to his honor! Do I not know thee, minion — do I not 
know the motives of thy conduct in leaving thy husband’s 
castle for the court of Bruce? Patriotism, forsooth — pa- 
triotism, ha ! the patriotism that had vent in giving and re- 
ceiving love from him ; it was so easy to do homage to him 
in public as thy king. Oh, most rare and immaculate speci- 
men of female loyalty and virtue, I know thee well ! ” 

“ Man ! ” answered the countess, springing from her 
knee, and standing before him with a mien and countenance 
of such majestic dignity, that for a brief moment it awed 
even him, and her bewildered son gazed at her with emo- 
tions of awe, struggling with surprise. 

“ Ha ! faithless minion, thou bravest it well,” continued 
Buchan, determined on evincing no faltering in his purpose, 
“ but thou bravest it in vain ; dishonored thou art, and hast 
been, aye, from the time thy minion Robert visited thee in 
Buchan Tower, and lingered with thee the months he had 
disappeared from Edward’s court. Would Isabella of Buch- 
an have rendered homage to any other bold usurper, save 
her minion Robert? Would the murder of a Comyn have 
passed unavenged by her had the murderer been other than 
her gallant Bruce? Would Isabella of Buchan be here, the 
only female in the Bruce’s train — for I know that he is with 
thee — were loyalty and patriotism her only motive? Wom- 
an, I know thee! I know that thou didst love him, ere 
that false hand and falser heart were given to me; thy lips 
spoke perfidy when they vowed allegiance at the altar; and 
shall I have mercy on thy son, for such as thee? Mercy! 
ha, have I silenced thy eloquence now ? ” 

“ Silenced, false, blasphemous villain ! ” vociferated 
Alan, every other feeling lost in the whirlwind of passion, 
and springing on the earl, with his drawn sword. “ ’Tis 
thou who art the false and faithless — thou who art lost to 
every feeling of honor and of truth. Thy words are false as 
hell from whence they spring ! ” 

“ Alan, by the love thou bearest me, I charge thee put up 
thy sword — it is thy father ! ” exclaimed the countess, com- 
mandingly, and speaking the last word in a tone that 
thrilled to the boy’s heart. He checked himself in his full 
career ; he snapped his drawn sword in twain, he cast it pas- 
sionately from him, and uttering, convulsively, “ Oh God, 
oh God, my father ! ” flung himself in agony on the ground. 
With arms folded and the smile of a demon on his lip the 
earl had awaited his attack, but there was disappointment 
within, for his foul charge had failed in its intended effect. 


THE HAYS OF BRUCE. 


143 


Prouder, colder, more commandingly erect had become the 
mien of the countess as he spoke, till she even appeared to 
increase in stature ; her flashing eyes had never moved from 
his face, till his fell beneath them; her lip had curled, his 
cheek had flushed : powerful indeed became the contrast be- 
tween the accused and the accuser. 

“ Arise, my son/’ she said, “ arise and look upon thy 
mother; her brow even as her heart is unstained with 
shame ; she fears not to meet the glance of her child. Look 
up, my boy; I speak these words to tliee, not to that bold, 
bad man, who hath dared unite the name of a daughter of 
Fife with shame. He hath no word either of exculpation, 
denial, or assent from me. But to thee, my child, my 
young, my innocent child, thee, whose ear, when removed 
from me, they may strive to poison with false tales, woven 
with such skill that hadst thou not thy mother’s word, 
should win thee to belief — to thee I say, look on me, Alan — 
is this a brow of guilt ? ” 

“ Ho, no, no, I will not look on thee, my mother ! I need 
not to gaze on thee to know the horrid falsity of the charge,” 
answered Alan, flinging his arms passionately around his 
mother. “ Did I never see thee more, never list that voice 
again, and did all the fiends of hell come around me with 
their lies, I would not hear, much less believe such charge. 
Ho, no! oh God, ’tis my father, speaks it! Father — and my 
hand is powerless to avenge.” 

“ I need not vengeance, my beloved ; grieve not, weep 
not that thy hand is chained, and may not defend thy 
mother’s stainless name ; I need it not. My heart is known 
unto my God, my innocence to thee; his blessing rest with 
thee, my beautiful, and give thee strength for all thou may- 
est endure.” 

She bent down to kiss his brow, which was damp with 
the dew of intense anguish. He started up, he gave one 
long look on her calm and noble face, and then he flung 
himself in her arms, and sobbed like a child on her bosom. 
It was a fearful moment for that woman heart; had she 
been alone with her child, both nerve and spirit must have 
given way, but fortunately, perhaps, for the preservation of 
her fortitude, the Earl of Buchan was still the witness of 
that scene, triumphing in the sufferings he had caused. 
The countess did indeed fold her boy convulsively to her 
breast, but she did not bend her head on his, as Hature 
prompted; it was still erect; her mien majestic still, and 
but a slight quivering in her beautiful lip betrayed emotion. 


144 


THE DAYS OF BEUCE. 


“Be firm; be thy noble self,” she said. “Forget not 
thou art a knight and soldier amid the patriots of Scotland. 
And now a while, farewell.” 

She extricated herself with some difficulty from his em- 
brace; she paused not to gaze again upon the posture of 
overwhelming despondency in which he had sunk, but 
with a step quick and firm advanced to the door. 

“ Whither goest thou, madam ? ” demanded the earl 
fiercely. “ Bold as thou art, it is well to know thou art a 
prisoner, accused of high treason against King Edward.” 

“ I need not your lordship’s voice to give me such in- 
formation,” she answered, proudly. “ Methinks these armed 
followers are all-sufficient evidence. Guard me, aye, con- 
fine me with fetters an thou wilt, but in thy presence thou 
canst not force me to abide.” 

“ Bid a last farewell to thy son, then, proud minion,” he 
replied, with fiendish malignity ; “ for an ye part now, it 
is forever. Ye see him not again.” 

“Then be it so,” she rejoined; “we shall meet where 
falsehood and malignant hate can never harm us more,” 
and with a gesture of dignity, more irritating to the earl 
than the fiercest demonstration of passion, she passed the 
threshold. A sign from Buchan surrounded her with 
guards, and by them she was conducted to a smaller apart- 
ment, which was first carefully examined as to any con- 
cealed means of escape, and then she was left alone, a strong 
guard stationed at the door. 

The first few minutes after the disappearance of the 
countess were passed by her husband in rapidly striding up 
and down the room, by her son, in the same posture of 
mute and motionless anguish in which she had left him. 
There is no need to define that suffering, his peculiar situ- 
ation is all-sufficient to explain it. Hurriedly securing the 
door from all intruders, the earl at length dpproached his 
son. 

“ Wouldst thou be free?” he said, abruptly. “Me- 
thinks thou art young enough still to love liberty better 
than chains, and perchance death. Speak, I tell thee; 
wouldst thou be free ? ” 

“Free!” answered Alan, raising his head, with flashing 
eye and burning cheek ; “ would I be free ? Ask of the 
chained lion, the caged bird, and they will tell thee the 
greenwood and forest glade are better, dearer, even though 
the chain were gemmed, the prison gilded. Would I be 
free? Thou knowest that I would.” 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


145 

“ Swear, then, that thou wilt quit Scotland, and vow 
fealty to Edward; that never more wilt thy sword be 
raised save against the contemned and hated Bruce. Be 
faithful but to me and to King Edward, and thou shalt be 
free.” 

“ Hever ! ” answered Alan, proudly. “ Earl of Buchan, 
I accept no conditions with my freedom; I will not be 
free, if only on this base condition. Turn recreant and 
traitor to my country and my king! resign the precious 
privilege of dying , if I may not live, for Scotland — I tell 
thee, never! Urge me no more.” 

“ Kay, thou art but a boy, a foolish boy,” continued the 
earl, struggling to speak persuadingly, “ incapable of judg- 
ing that which is right and best. I tell thee, I will give 
thee not freedom alone, but honor, station, wealth; I will 
acknowledge thee as my well-beloved son and heir; I will 
forget all that is past; nay, not e’en thy will or actions 
will I restrain ; I will bind thee by no vow ; thou shalt take 
no part with Edward ; I will interfere not with thy peculiar 
politics ; e’en what thou wilt thou shalt do, aye, and have — 
and all this but on one condition, so slight and simple that 
thou art worse than fool an thou refusest.” 

“ Speak on,” muttered Alan, without raising his head. 
“ I hear.” 

“ Give me but information of the movements of him 
thou callest king,” replied Buchan, in a low yet emphati- 
cally distinct voice; give me but a hint as to where we 
may meet him in combat — in all honorable and knightly 
combat, thou knowest that I mean — give me but informa- 
tion such as this, and thou art free, unshackled, in condi- 
tion as in limb.” 

“ In other words, betray him” replied Alan, starting up. 
“ Purchase my freedom with the price of his! mine, of 
nothing worth, aye, less than nothing, redeemed by his! 
Oh, shame, shame on thee, my lord! Well mayest thou 
offer me freedom of action as in will on such condition. Of 
little heed to Edward were the resistance of all Scotland, 
were Robert in his power. Honor, station, wealth! — oh, 
knowest thou the human heart so little as to believe these 
can exist with black treachery and fell remorse ? Once and 
forever, I tell thee thine offers are in vain. Were death in 
one scale, and free, unshackled liberty in the other, and 
thou badest me choose between, I would not so stain my 
soul. Death, death itself were welcome, aye, worse than 
death — confinement, chains. I would hug them to my heart 

* 


146 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


as precious boons, rather than live and walk the earth a 
traitor.” 

“ Beware ! ” muttered the earl ; “ tempt me not too far, 
rash boy. I would not do thee ill ; I would have pity on thy 
erring youth, remembering the evil counsels, the base heart 
which hath guided thee.” 

“ Do thou beware ! ” retorted Alan, fiercely. “ Speak 
not such foul words to me. Father, as I know thou art in 
blood, there are ties far stronger which bind me to my moth- 
er — ties, neglect, forgetfulness, indifference as thine can 
never know. Pity, aye, mercy’s self, I scorn them, for 1 
need them not.” 

“ Ha ! sayest thou so ; then I swear thou shalt not have 
them ! ” exclaimed the earl, rage again obtaining the as- 
cendant. “ I would have saved thee ; I would have given 
thee freedom, though I needed not the condition that I of- 
fered. Thinkest thou I do not know that the traitor Bruce 
and his followers will return hither, and fall into the net 
prepared? thinkest thou I know not he is with thee, aye, 
that he would not have left his patriot countess thus slight- 
ly guarded, an he hoped not to return himself ? He cannot 
escape me — the murder of Sir John Comyn will be 
avenged.” 

“ He shall, he will escape thee, proud earl,” undauntedly 
returned Alan. “ The savior of his wretched country will 
not be forced to bow before such as thee; he will be saved 
out of the net prepared — harassed, chased, encompassed as 
he is. I tell thee, Earl of Buchan, he will escape thee yet.” 

“ Then, by Heaven, thy head shall fall for his ! ” fierce- 
ly replied the earl. “ If he return not, he has been fore- 
warned, prepared, and I, fool as I was, have thought not of 
this danger. Look to it, proud boy, if the Bruce return not 
forty-eight hours hence, and thou art still silent, thou 
diest.” 

He held up his clenched hand in a threatening attitude, 
but Alan neither moved nor spoke, firmly returning the 
earl’s infuriated gaze till the door closed on his father’s re- 
treating form. He heard the bolts drawn, the heavy tramp 
of the guard, and then he threw himself on the couch, and 
buried his face in his hands. 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


147 


CHAPTER XV. 

While these fearful scenes were passing in the hunting- 
lodge, Malcolm, the young page already mentioned, had 
contrived to elude the vigilance of the earl’s numerous fol- 
lowers, and reach the brow of the hollow in perfect safety. 
Endowed with a sense and spirit above his years, and in- 
spired by his devoted attachment to the countess and Sir 
Alan, the boy did not merely think of his own personal se- 
curity, and of the simple act of warning the king against 
the treachery which awaited his return, but, with an eye 
and mind well practised in intelligent observation, he 
scanned the numbers, character, and peculiar situation of 
the foes which had so unexpectedly come upon them. Be- 
ing peculiarly small and light in figure, and completely 
clothed in dark-green tunic and hose, which was scarcely 
discernible from the trees and shrubs around, he stole in 
and out every brake and hollow, clambering lightly and 
noiselessly over crags, hanging like a broken branch from 
stunted trees, leaping with the elasticity of a youthful fawn 
over stream and shrub, and thus obtained a true and exact 
idea of the matter he desired. The boy’s heart did indeed 
sink as he felt rescue would be utterly impossible; that in 
one direction the English force extended nearly a mile, 
guarding every avenue, every hollow in the forest, till it 
seemed next to impossible King Robert could escape, even 
if forewarned. Wherever he turned his steps the enemy ap- 
peared to lurk, but he wavered not in his purpose. Aware 
of the direction which the king would take in returning, 
Malcolm slackened not his speed until some three hours 
after he had quitted the hollow, and he stood before his 
sovereign well-nigh too exhausted for the utterance of his 
tale. 

The first impulse of the king and his true-hearted fol- 
lowers was to dare all danger, and rescue the countess and 
her brave son at the expense of their lives; but Malcolm, 
flinging himself at the feet of Robert, adjured him, in the 
name of the countess, to remember and act upon the vow 
he had so solemnly pledged at parting. He earnestly and 
emphatically repeated the last injunctions of his lady, her 
deep anguish that the king, the savior of Scotland, should 
hazard all for her and her child — better they should die 
than Robert; but these entreaties were but anguish to the 
noble spirit who heard, aye, and felt their truth, though 


148 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


abide by them he could not. Again and again he ques- 
tioned and cross-questioned as to their numbers and their 
strength, but Malcolm never wavered from his first account ; 
clearly and concisely he gave every required information, 
and with bleeding hearts that little band of patriots felt 
they dared not hope to rescue and to conquer. Yet tacitly 
to assent to necessity, to retreat without one blow, to leave 
their faithful companions to death, without one stroke for 
vengeance at least, if not for relief, this should not be. 

“We will see with our own eyes, hear with our own ears, 
at least my friends,” King Robert said. “ Is there one 
among ye would retreat, from the narrative of a child, 
true as it may be ? Remember the pass in Argyle ; if neces- 
sary, your sovereign can protect your retreat now as then; 
and we shall at least feel we have struggled to rescue, 
striven for the mastery, even if it be in vain. Were my 
death, aye, the death of Scotland the forfeit, I could not 
so stain my knightly fame by such retreat. Let but the 
morning dawn, and we will ourselves mark the strength of 
our foes.” 

There was not one dissenting voice, rash as his deter- 
mination might appear. The extraordinary skill and cour- 
age of their sovereign, displayed in so many instances dur- 
ing their perilous wanderings, were too fresh in their mem- 
ories to permit of one doubt, one fear, even had he led them 
on to certain death. To throw themselves from their tired 
chargers, to give them food, to lie down themselves for a 
brief repose on the turf, that they might be strengthened 
and cheered for the work of the morning, all this did not 
occupy much time; and if their slumbers were brief and 
troubled, it did not prevent their rising with alacrity at the 
first peep of day to polish their arms, look to the sharpening 
of their swords and spears, share the rude huntsman’s meal, 
and mount and ride with the first signal of their king. 

But bold and brave as were these true-hearted men, suc- 
cessful as, comparatively speaking, they were in the number- 
less skirmishes which took place that day, darkness over- 
took them, with increase of glory indeed, but no nearer the 
accomplishment of their object than they had been in the 
morning. 

With bitter sorrow King Robert had perceived the full 
confirmation of the page’s words. The early close of the 
night attendant on the autumn season was also unfavorable 
to his views ; the events of the day had fully convinced him 
that many an ambush was set in his path, that his personal 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


149 


safety was wholly incompatible with a night attack, and 
therefore he was compelled to remain on the defensive in 
one spot, which was fortunately barricaded and concealed 
by Nature, during the many long and weary hours forming 
an October night. Yet still the following day beheld him 
struggling on, in the face alike of disappointment, defeat, 
and danger the most imminent; still seeking the same ob- 
ject, still hoping against hope, and retreating only because 
the welfare of his country, of her unfortunate children, de- 
pended upon him; bands more and more numerous pressed 
upon him, coming from every side, and scarcely was one 
skilfully eluded ere he had to struggle against another. 
Nothing but the most consummate skill, the most patient 
courage, and coolest address could have extricated him from 
the fearful dangers which encompassed him. Again did 
his followers believe he bore a charmed life, for not only 
did he deal destruction, unhurt himself, but after three 
days’ almost incessant fighting and fatigue, he had brought 
them to a place of safety, with but the loss of five-and- 
twenty men. 

But though painfully conscious that further efforts for 
the rescue of his friends were completely useless, King 
Robert could not rest satisfied without some more accurate 
knowledge of their fate, and after some hurried yet anxious 
consultation, Sir James Douglas, with that daring which so 
marked his simplest action, declared that at all risks he 
would seek some tidings that would end their anxiety. In 
the disguise of a peasant he would be secure from all dis- 
covery, he said; and he had not the slightest fear as to the 
success of the adventure. Five others started up as he 
spoke, entreating permission to take the same disguise and 
accompany him. It was granted; King Robert advising 
them, however, to adopt a diversity of costume, and keep 
each one apart as they approached inhabited districts, as 
their numbers might excite suspicion, even though the 
actual disguise was complete. With arms concealed be- 
neath their various disguises, they departed that same even- 
ing, engaging to meet the king at the base of Ben-Cruchan, 
some miles more south than their present trysting. It was 
an anxious parting, and yet more when they were actually 
gone; for the high spirit and vein of humor which charac- 
terized the young Lord Douglas had power to cheer his 
friends even in the most painful moments. King Robert, 
indeed, exerted himself, but this last stroke had been a 
heavy one; knowing so well the character of Edward, he 


150 


THE DAYS OF BKUCE. 


trembled both for the countess and her noble son, perhaps 
less for the latter than the former, for he hoped and believed 
the Earl of Buchan, if indeed he were their captor, would 
at least have some mercy on his son, but for the countess 
he knew that there was no hope. The character, the senti- 
ments of the earl had been noticed by the Bruce, when both 
were at the court of Edward, and he felt and knew that any 
excuse to rid him of a wife whose virtues were obnoxious to 
him would be acted on with joy. And here, perhaps, it may 
be well to say a few words as to the real nature of King 
Robert’s sentiments toward Isabella of Buchan, as from the 
anxiety her detention occasioned they may be so easily mis- 
understood. 

We have performed our task but ill if our readers have 
imagined aught but the most purely noble, most chivalric 
sentiments actuated the heart of the king. Whatever might 
have been the nature of those sentiments in earlier days, 
since his marriage with the daughter of the Earl of Mar 
they had never entered his soul. 

He had always believed the Lady Isabella’s union with 
Lord John Comyn was one of choice, not of necessity, nor 
did his visit to her after the battle of Falkirk recall any for- 
mer feeling. His mind had been under the heavy pressure 
of that self-reproach which the impressive words af Wallace 
had first awakened; the wretched state of his country, the 
tyranny of Edward, occupied the mind of the man in which 
the emotions of the boy had merged. He was, too, a hus- 
band and a father ; and he was, as his fond wife so trusting- 
ly believed, too nobly honorable to entertain one thought to 
her dishonor. He looked on Isabella of Buchan as one in- 
deed demanding his utmost esteem and gratitude, his most 
faithful friendship, and he secretly vowed that she should 
have it; but these emotions took not their coloring from 
the past, they were excited simply by her high-minded de- 
votion to the cause of her country, her unshrinking patriot- 
ism, her noble qualities, alike as a mother, subject, friend. 
He felt but as one noble spirit ever feels for a kindred es- 
sence, heightened perhaps by the dissimilarity of sex, but 
aught of love, even in its faintest shadow, aught of dishon- 
orable feelings toward her or his own wife never entered his 
wildest dream. It was the recollection of her unwavering 
loyalty, of the supporting kindness she had ever shown his 
queen, which occasioned his bitter sorrow at her detention 
by the foe ; it was the dread that the cruel wrath of Edward 
would indeed condemn her to death for the active part she 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


151 


had taken in his coronation; the conviction, so agonizing 
to a mind like his, that he had no power to rescue and 
avenge; the fearful foreboding that thus would all his 
faithful friends fall from him — this, only this, would be the 
reward of all who served and loved him; and even while 
still, with undaunted firmness, cheering the spirits of his 
adherents, speaking hope to them, his own inward soul 
was tortured with doubts as to the wisdom of his resistance, 
lingering regrets for the fate of those of his friends already 
lost to him, and painful fears for the final doom of those 
who yet remained. 

It was in such moments of despondency that remorse, 
too, ever gained dominion, and heightened his inward strug- 
gles. Robert’s hand was not framed for blood; his whole 
soul revolted from the bitter remembrance of that fatal act 
of passion which had stained his first rising. He would 
have given worlds, if he had had them, to have recalled that 
deed. Busy fancy represented a hundred ways of punish- 
ing treachery other than that which his fury had adopted; 
and this remembrance ever increased the anguish with 
which he regarded the fate of his friends. His lot was in- 
deed as yet one of unexampled suffering, borne by heroism 
as great as unequalled; but the lustre of the latter too fre- 
quently dazzles the mind, and prevents the full meed of 
glory being obtained. His heroism is known to all, his suf- 
ferings to but a few; but perhaps it was the latter yet more 
than the former w T hich gave to Scotland the glory and honor 
she acquired in his reign. Heroism is scarce separable 
from ambition, but to mere ambition the voice of suffering 
is seldom heard. Heroism dazzles the crowd, suffering puri- 
fies the man. If Robert the Bruce were ambitious, the pas- 
sion in him assumed a nobler and better form; yet we can 
scarcely call that ambition which sought but the delivery of 
Scotland from chains, but the regaining an ancient heri- 
tage, and sought no more. It was patriotism hallowed by 
suffering, purified by adversity ; patriotism the noblest, 
purest which ever entered the heart of man. 

King Robert and his handful of followers not only 
reached their trysting-place themselves, but were joined by 
the queen, and many of her female companions and their 
attendant warriors, ere Lord James Douglas returned; three 
of his companions had straggled in, one by one, with vari- 
ous accounts, but none so satisfactory as the king desired, 
and he believed with justice, that Douglas lingered to bring, 
if not satisfactory (for that, alas! could not be) yet ac- 


152 


THE DAYS OF BEUCE. 


curate intelligence. If aught could have comforted Agnes 
in these moments of agonized suspense, it would have 
been not alone the redoubled affection of her Nigel, but the 
soothing kindness, the love and sympathy of a father, which 
was lavished on her by King Robert; nay, each of those 
rude warriors softened in address and tone, as they looked 
on and spoke to that fair, fragile being, whom they feared 
now stood alone. She did not weep when other eyes than 
those of Nigel, or the Lady Campbell, or the gentle Isoline 
were on her, but that deadly pallor, that quivering lip, and 
heavy eye spoke all that she endured. 

A large cavern, divided by Nature into many compart- 
ments, was now the temporary shelter of the king and his 
friends. It was situated at the base of Ben-Cruchan, which, 
though at the entrance of the territories of Lorn, was now 
comparatively secure, the foe imagining the Bruce still 
amidst the mountains of Aberdeenshire. 

The evening meal was spread ; a huge fire blazing in the 
stony cavity removed all appearance of damp or discomfort, 
and shed a warm, ruddy light on the groups within. It was 
a rude home for the King of Scotland and his court, yet 
neither murmuring nor despondency was marked on the 
bold brows of the warriors, or the gentler and paler features 
of their faithful companions; their frames, indeed, showed 
the effect of wandering and anxiety; many an eye which 
had been bright was sunken, many a blooming cheek was 
paled; but the lip yet smiled, the voice had yet its glee- 
some tones to soothe and cheer their warrior friends; the 
eager wish to prepare the couch and dress the simple meal, 
to perform those many little offices of love and kindness so 
peculiarly a woman’s, and engaged in with a zest, a skill 
which was intuitive, for there had been a time, and one not 
far distant, when those highborn females little dreamed 
such household deeds would be their occupation. 

Brightly and beautifully shone forth conjugal and filial 
love in those wandering hours; the wife, the child, the sis- 
ter bound themselves yet closer to the warrior husband, 
father, brother, which claimed them his. Yet sweet, most 
sweet as were those acts of love, there were anxious and lov- 
ing hearts which felt that soon, too soon, they must part 
from them, they must persuade those gentle ones to accede 
to a temporary separation — they could not, they would not 
expose them to the snows and killing frosts of a Scottish 
winter. 

Anxiety, deep anxiety was on the heart of King Robert, 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


153 


becoming more painful with each glance he fixed on Agnes, 
who was sitting apart with Nigel, her aching head resting 
on his shoulder, but he strove to return the caresses of his 
daughter, to repay with fond smiles the exertions of his wife. 
Sir Nigel Campbell (who, after many painful trials, had 
rejoined the king) and others strove to disperse the silently 
gathering gloom by jest and song, till the cavern walls re- 
echoed with their soldier mirth. Harshly and mournfully 
it fell on the ear and heart of the maiden of Buchan, but 
she would not have it stilled. 

“No, no; do thou speak to me, Nigel, and I shall only 
list to thee. Why should the noble efforts of these brave 
men — for I know even to them mirth is now an effort — be 
chilled and checked, because my sick heart beats not in uni- 
son ? Oh, when will Lord J ames return ? ” 

Nigel sought to soothe, to speak hope, but though his 
words fell like balm on the bleeding heart he held to his, it 
was the rich melody of their voice, not the matter of their 
meaning. 

The hour of rest was fast approaching, when the well- 
known signal was heard without, and the young Lord Doug- 
las, with his two companions, were hastily and eagerly ad- 
mitted within the cave. Their looks denoted great fatigue, 
and the eager eyes which scanned their countenances read 
little to hope, yet much, much, alas ! to fear. 

Thou hast so far succeeded as to obtain the intelligence 
we need,” was the king’s instant greeting, as he released his 
favorite young follower from his embrace ; “ that I can read, 
but further, I fear me, thou hast little to communicate 
which we shall love to hear.” 

“ My tidings are ill indeed, your highness ; aggravated 
and most undreamed-of ill. But, perchance,” and the 
young man hesitated, for his eye caught the pallid face of 
Agnes, who had irresistibly drawn closer to the circle about 
the king, and fixed her eyes on him with an expression al- 
most wild in its agony, “ perchance they had better first 
meet your grace’s private ear.” 

“No, no!” reiterated Agnes, springing forward, and 
clinging convulsively to his arm. “ It is only me thou 
fearest, I know; I know thou wouldst spare me, but do not, 
do not. I can bear all, everything, save this horrible sus- 
pense; speak out, let me but know all, and then I can teach 
my soul to bear it. Oh, do not hesitate, do not pause; in 
mercy, tell me — oh, tell me all ! ” 

Thus adjured, but feeling most painfully the suffering 


154 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


his tale would produce, Douglas struggled with his own 
emotion, and repeated all the information he had obtained. 
Guardedly as he spoke, evidently as he endeavored to pre- 
pare the mind of Agnes, and thus soften its woe, his tale 
was yet such as to harrow up the hearts of all his hearers, 
how much more the frail and gentle being to whom it more 
immediately related; yet she stood calm, pale, indeed, and 
quivering, but with a desperate effort conquering the weak- 
ness of her nature, and bearing that deep woe as the daugh- 
ter of her mother, the betrothed of Nigel Bruce. 

The young lord’s information was simply this. On 
nearing the hunting-lodge, which was his first object, he 
found it very nearly deserted, but a few stragglers, amount- 
ing perhaps to fifty in number of the followers of Buchan, 
remaining behind, with orders to follow their master to Dun- 
keld without delay. Mingling with these as a countryman 
of the more northern counties, eager to obtain every species 
of intelligence respecting the movements of the English 
and the hunted Bruce, whom he pretended to condemn and 
vilify after the fashion of the Anglo-Scots, and feeling per- 
fectly secure not only in the disguise he had assumed, but 
in the peculiar accent and intonation of the north-country 
peasant, which he could assume at pleasure, he made him- 
self a welcome guest, and with scarcely any trouble received 
much of the information he desired. He was told of the 
first capture and rescue of the Countess of Buchan; that it 
was through one of the men left for dead on the scene of 
the skirmish the earl had received such exact information 
concerning the movements and intended destination of the 
Bruce; that immediately on receiving this intelligence he 
had gathered all his force, amounting to five hundred men, 
and dividing them into different bands, sent skilful guides 
with each, and was thus enabled to surround the lodge, and 
command five different avenues of the forest, without inter- 
ruption or discovery. He learned, too, that a stormy in- 
terview had taken place between the earl, his wife, and son, 
the particulars of which, however, had not transpired; that 
the earl’s rage had been terrific when he found the night 
passed, and the Bruce had not fallen into the snare laid for 
him; and he had sworn a fearful oath, that if the countess 
would not betray him into his power, her son should die; 
that both mother and son had stood this awful trial without 
shrinking; that no word either to betray their king or im- 
plore life and mercy had been wrung from them. Incensed 
beyond all measure, Buchan had sent on the countess with a 


THE DAYS OF BBUCE. 


155 


numerous guard, his men believed, either to Dunkeld or 
Perth, in both of which towns there was a strong garrison 
of English, and lingered yet another day and night in the 
hope of dragging some intelligence from the lips of Alan, 
or persuading him into acting the spy upon the actions and 
movements of the Bruce. He succeeded in neither; and 
the men continued to state, with shuddering horror, which 
even their rude natures could not suppress, that they be- 
lieved the son had actually fallen a victim to his father’s 
rage — that he had actually been murdered. Numerous re- 
ports to that effect had been circulated on all sides, and 
though they had watched narrowly, they had seen nothing 
to contradict it. The body of the unfortunate boy had been 
cast into a deep well, heaps of rubbish flung over it, and 
the well built up. This they knew as a positive certainty, 
for they had seen it. 

Douglas heard this tale with an intensity of horror, of 
loathing, which at first deprived him almost of every other 
feeling ; but when he could withdraw himself from the hor- 
rible idea, a species of disbelief took possession of him. It 
was impossible such utter depravity, such fearful insensibil- 
ity to the claims of nature could exist in the breast of any 
man; it was a tale forged to inflict fresh agony on the 
mother’s heart, and he determined on discovering, if pos- 
sible, the truth. He pretended entirely to disbelieve it ; de- 
clared it was not possible; that the earl had practised on 
their credulity, and would laugh at them afterward; and 
contrived so well, that three or four declared he should be 
convinced with his own eyes, and set about pulling down 
the slight brickwork which covered the well. This was 
what Douglas wanted, and he eagerly lent them a helping 
hand. 

A body there was indeed, in form and in clothing so ex- 
actly that of the unhappy Alan, that, even though the face 
was so marred it could not be recognized, the young earl 
could doubt no longer; the young, the brave, the beautiful, 
and true, had fallen a victim to his own patriot loyalty, and 
by a father’s hand. The deep suffering this certainly occa- 
sioned was regarded by his companions as sulkiness for hav- 
ing been proved wrong in his judgment; they jeered and 
laughed at him accordingly, and harshly as these sounds 
reverberated in his heart, they were welcome, as enabling 
him still more easily to continue his disguise. 

He accompanied them to Dunkeld, and found the earl 
had proceeded with his wife as prisoner to the castle of 
11 


156 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


Stirling, there to deliver her over to the Earl of Hereford, 
through whom to be sent on to Edward. Determined on 
seeing her, if possible, Douglas resolved on daring the 
danger, and venturing even to the very stronghold of his 
foes. The horror which this unnatural act of the earl had 
excited in the minds of his men, he found had extended 
even over those in Dunkeld, and through them he learned 
that, directly on reaching the town, the earl had sought the 
countess, brutally communicated the death of her son, and 
placed in her hands the raven curls as all which remained of 
him, some of which were dabbled in blood; that she had 
remained apparently unmoved while in his presence, but the 
moment he left her had sunk into a succession of the most 
fearful fainting fits, in one of which she had been removed 
to Stirling. 

Withdrawing himself from his companions, under pre- 
tence of returning to his home in the north, having, he said, 
loitered too long, Douglas concealed himself for some days 
in the abbey of Scone, the holy inmates of which still re- 
tained their loyalty and patriotism, notwithstanding their 
revered abbot, unable to remain longer inactive, had donned 
the warrior’s dress, and departed to join and fight with his 
king. Assuming the cowl and robes of one of the lay 
brothers, and removing the red wig and beard he had adopt- 
ed with his former costume, the young lord took the staff in 
his hand, and with difficulty bringing his hasty pace to a 
level with the sober step and grave demeanor of a reverend 
monk, reached Stirling just as the cavalcade, with the litter 
intended for the captive countess, had assembled before the 
castle gate. Agitated almost beyond the power of control, 
Douglas made his way through the gathering crowds, and 
stood unquestioned close beside the litter. He did not wait 
long. Respectfully supported by the Earl of Hereford him- 
self, the Countess of Buchan, with a firm, unfaltering step, 
approached the litter. The hood was thrown back, and 
Douglas could read the effects of withering agony on the 
marble stillness of those beautiful features, though to all 
else they spoke but firm and calm resolve; there was not a 
vestige of color on cheek or lip or brow; and though her 
figure was as commanding, as majestic as heretofore, there 
was a fearful attenuation about it, speaking volumes to 
Lord James’s heart. Hereford placed her in the litter, and 
with a respectful salutation turned away to give some 
necessary orders to his men. Bold in his disguise, Douglas 
bent over the countess, and spoke in a low, feigned voice 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


157 


those words of comfort and of peace suited to his assumed 
character; but feigned as it was, the countess recognized 
him on that instant; a convulsive shudder passed through 
her every limb, contracting her features with very agqny. 

“ My child — my Alan ! ” she whispered, narrowing his 
very soul beneath that voice’s thrilling woe. “ Douglas, 
hast thou heard? — yes, yes; I can read it in thine awe- 
struck face. This, this is all I have left of him,” and she 
partly drew from her bosom the clustering ringlets he recog- 
nized at once ; “ yet, wherefore should I mourn him : he is 
happy. Bid his memory be honored among ye ; and oh, tell 
the sovereign for whom he fell, better a death like this than 
treachery and shame.” 

She had paused as fearing observation, but perceiving 
the attention of all more fixed on the glittering cavalcade 
than on herself, she placed one of those glossy curls in the 
young earl’s hand, and continued: 

“ Give this to my poor Agnes, with her mother’s bless- 
ing, and bid her take comfort, bid her not weep and mourn 
for me. A prison, even death is preferable now to life, for 
she is cared for. I trust her to Sir Nigel’s love; I know 
that he will tend her as a brother till a happier hour makes 
her all his own. Commend me to my sovereign, and tell 
him, might I choose my path again, despite its anguish, 
’twould be that which I have trod. And now farewell, 
young lord, I bless thee for this meeting.” 

“ Dominus vobiscum mea filia, et vale,” responded the 
supposed monk, in a loud voice, for he had only time to as- 
sure the countess by a look of deep sympathy of his willing- 
ness to execute her simplest wish, and hide the ringlet in 
his bosom, ere Hereford turned toward him, with a gaze 
of stern inquiry. Ably concealing alike his emotion and 
the expression of his countenance, Douglas evaded discovery, 
and even obtained permission to follow the litter to the en- 
virons of the town. He did so, but the countess addressed 
him not again; and it was with a heart-sinking despon- 
dency he had turned to the mountains, when the cavalcade 
disappeared from his view. He retained his monkish garb 
till he entered the mountain district, where he fell in with 
his two companions, and they proceeded, as we have seen, 
to the quarters of their king. 

A pause of horror followed his narrative, told more for- 
cibly and briefly by the lips of Douglas than through the 
cooler medium of the historian’s pen. Stunned, over- 
whelmed, as if incapable of movement or speech, though 


158 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


sense remained, Agnes stood insensible, even to the voice 
of Nigel, whose soothing accents strove to whisper peace; 
but when Douglas placed in her cold hand the raven curls 
she knew so well, when tenderly yet earnestly he repeated 
her mother’s words, the poor girl repeatedly pressed the hair 
to her parched lips, and laid it in her bosom ; and then per- 
ceiving the sad and anxious face of her beloved, she passed 
her hand hurriedly over her brow, and burying her head 
on his breast, sense was preserved by an agony of tears. 

It was long, long ere this aggravated wretchedness was 
calmed, though the love of many, the devotion of one 
were ever round her to strengthen and console. Sympathy, 
the most heartfelt, reigned in every bosom. Of the many 
misfortunes which had befallen this patriot band, this 
seemed, if not really the severest, more fraught with hor- 
ror than any which had come before ; the youth, the gallant 
bearing, the endearing qualities of the heir of Buchan 
stood forth with vivid clearness in the memories of all, 
and there were times when they felt it could not be, it 
was too fearful; and then again, the too certain evidence 
of the fact, witnessed as it had been by one of such tried 
truth as James of Douglas, brought conviction too clearly 
home, and the sternest warrior, who would have faced his 
own captivity and death unmoved, felt no shame in the 
dimness which gathered in his eye for the fearful fate of 
the murdered boy. 

In King Robert’s breast these emotions obtained yet 
more powerful dominion; again did remorse distract him, 
and there were moments of darkness, when his spirit ques- 
tioned the justice of the Creator. Why was not his crime 
visited on his own head? Why did the guiltless and un- 
stained fall thus around him, and he remain unharmed? 
and it needed all the eloquence of Nigel, the pious reason- 
ings of the Abbot of Scone, to convince him that, dark and 
inscrutable as the decrees of Omnipotence sometimes 
seemed, in his case they were as clear as the wisdom from 
which they sprung. By chastisement he was purified; he 
was not yet fit to receive the reward of the righteous wait- 
ing on death. Destined to be the savior of his unhappy 
country, the remorse which bowed down his naturally 
haughty spirit was more acceptable in the sight of his God, 
more beneficial to his own soul, than the one act of devoted- 
ness included in a brave man’s death. Robert struggled 
with his despondency, with his soul’s deep grief, known as 
it was but to himself, his confessor, and his young brother; 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


159 


he felt its encouragement would unnerve him for his des- 
tined task. Other imperative matters now pressed round 
him, and by presenting fresh and increased danger, roused 
his energies once more to their wonted action. 

The winter had set in with unexampled severity, over- 
whelming snow-storms filled up the rude paths of the moun- 
tains, till egress and ingress appeared impossible. The Earl 
of Athol himself, who had been the inseparable companion 
of the Bruce in all his wanderings, now spoke of retiring, 
and passing the winter within stone walls, urging his sover- 
eign with earnest eloquence to take refuge in Ireland till 
the spring, when they would reassemble under arms, and 
perhaps take the tyrant Edward once more by surprise. 

Bruce knew the veteran nobleman too well to attribute 
this advice to any motive save deep interest in his safety. 
He saw, too, that it was utterly impossible for them to re- 
main as they then were, without serious evils alike to his 
female and male companions; the common soldiers, steady 
and firm as they still continued in loyalty, yet were con- 
tinually dispersing, promising to reassemble in the spring, 
but declaring that it was useless to think of struggling 
against the English, when the very elements were at war 
against them. With a_ sad foreboding, Bobert saw, and 
communicated to his devoted wife the necessity of their 
separation. He felt that it was right and best, and there- 
fore he resisted all her tearful entreaties still to linger by 
his side ; her child was suffering, for her tender years could 
not bear up against the cold and the want of proper nour- 
ishment, and yet even that claim seemed less to the mother’s 
heart than the vision of her husband enduring increase of 
hardship alone. Her acquiescence was indeed at length 
obtained, but dimmed by many very bitter tears. 

A hasty consultation with his few remaining friends 
speedily decided the Bruce’s plans. The castle of Kildrum- 
mie, a strong fortress situated at the head of the Don, in 
Aberdeenshire, yet remained to him, and thither, under the 
escort of his brother Higel and three hundred men, the king 
determined to send his wife and child, and the other ladies 
of his court. Himself, his three brothers, Edward, Alex- 
ander, and Thomas, Douglas, Sir Niel Campbell, and his 
remaining two hundred followers, resolved on cautiously 
making their way southward across Loch Lomond, and pro- 
ceed thence to the coast of Ireland, there to await the 
spring. In pursuance of this plan, Sir Kiel Campbell was 
dispatched without delay to conciliate Angus, Lord of the 


160 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


Isles, to whom Cantire then belonged. Knowing he was 
unfriendly to his near neighbors, the Lords of Lorn, the 
king trusted he should find in him a powerful ally. To ap- 
peal yet more strongly to the chivalric hospitality which 
characterized the chieftain, Sir Kiel consented that his wife 
and daughter Isoline should accompany him. Lady Camp- 
bell had too lately undergone the grief and anxiety attendant 
on the supposed loss of her husband to consent to another 
parting. Even the king, her brother, sought not to dissuade 
her ; but all persuasions to induce Agnes to accompany them 
were vain ; bitter as the pang of separation was to her already 
aching heart — for Lady Campbell and Isoline were both 
most dear to her — she steadily resolved to remain with the 
queen and her attendants, and thus share the fate of her 
betrothed. 

“ Did not my mother commend me to thy care ? Did 
she not bid thee tend me as a brother until happier hours, 
and shall I seek other guardianship than thine, my Nigel? ” 
were her whispered words, and Nigel could not answer them. 
So pure, so unselfish was her love, that though he felt his 
happiness would have departed with her presence, could he 
have commanded words he would have implored her to seek 
the hospitality of the Lord of the Isles as a securer home than 
Kildrummie. Those forebodings already alluded to had re- 
turned with darker weight from the hour his separation 
from his brother was resolved on. He evinced no sign of 
his inward thoughts, he uttered no word of dissent, for the 
trust reposed in him by his sovereign was indeed as pre- 
cious as it was honorable ; but there was a mournful expres- 
sion on his beautiful countenance — when unobserved, it 
would rest upon his brother — that Agnes could not define, 
although it filled her spirit with incomprehensible alarm, 
and urged her yet more to abide by his side. 

The dreaded day arrived at length, and agonized was in- 
deed that parting. Cheerfully the king looked and hope- 
fully he spoke, but it had no power to calm the whelming 
tide of sorrow in which his wife clung to his embrace. 
Again and again he returned to that faithful heart which 
bore so fondly, so forbearingly, with all her faults and weak- 
nesses; and Margory, although she could not comprehend 
the extent of sorrow experienced by her mother, wept bitter- 
ly at her side. Nor were they the only sufferers. Some 
indeed were fortunate enough to have relatives amid the 
band which accompanied them to Kildrummie, but by far 
the greater number clung to the necks of brothers, fathers, 


THE DAYS OF BEUCE. 


161 


husbands, whose faithful and loving companions they had 
been so long — clung to them and wept, as if a long dim vista 
of sorrow and separation stretched before them. Danger, 
indeed, was around them, and the very fact of their being 
thus compelled to divide, appeared to heighten the perils, 
and tacitly acknowledge them as too great to be endured. 

With pain and difficulty the iron-souled warriors at 
length tore themselves from the embrace of those they held 
most dear. The knights and their followers had closed 
round the litters, and commenced their march. No clarion 
sent its shrill blast on the mountain echoes, no inspiring 
drum reverberated through the glens — all was mournfully 
still; as the rudest soldier revered the grief he beheld, and 
shrunk from disturbing it by a sound. 

King Robert stood alone, on the spot where Sir Christo- 
pher Seaton had borne from him his wife and child. His 
eyes still watched their litter; his thoughts still lingered 
with them alone; full of affection, anxiety, sadness, they 
were engrossed, but not defined. He was aroused by the 
sudden appearance of his younger brother, who, bareheaded, 
threw himself at his feet, and, in a voice strangely husky, 
murmured : 

“ My sovereign, my brother, bless me, oh, bless me, ere 
we part ! ” 

“ My blessing — the blessing of one they deem accursed ; 
and to thee, good, noble, stainless as thou art! Nigel, 
Nigel, do not mock me thus,” answered the king, bitterness 
struggling with the deepest melancholy, as he laid his hand, 
which strangely trembled, on the young man’s lowered 
head. “ Alas ! bring I not evil and misery and death on all 
who love me ? What, what may my blessing bring to thee ? ” 

“ Joy, bright joy in the hour of mirth and comfort; oh, 
untold-of comfort in the time of sorrow, imprisonment, 
death! My brother, my brother, oh, refuse it not! thou 
knowest not, thou canst not know how Nigel loves thee ! ” 

Kobert gazed at him till every thought, every feeling was 
lost in the sudden sensation of dread lest ill should come 
to him; it had overtaken one as fair in promise, as beloved, 
and yet younger ; and oh, if death selected the best, the love- 
liest, the dearest, would it next fall on him? The thought 
was such absolute agony, that the previous suffering of that 
hour was lost before it. 

“ Bless thee — oh, may God in heaven bless thee, my 
brave, my noble Nigel ! ” he exclaimed, with a burst of emo- 
tion, perfectly appalling in one generally so controlled, and 


162 


THE DAYS OF BEUCE. 


raising him, he strained him convulsively to his heart. 
“ Yet why should we part?” he added, after a long pause; 
“ why did I fix on thee for this office — are there not others ? 
Nigel, Nigel, say but the word, and thou shalt rest with me: 
danger, privation, exile we have borne, and may still share 
together. Why should I send thee from me, dearest, most 
beloved of all who call me brother ? ” 

“Why?” answered Nigel, raising his glistening eyes 
from his brother’s shoulder, “ why, dear Robert ? because 
thine eye could read my heart and trust it ; because I knew- 
est I would watch over those who bear thy name, who are 
dear to thee, even as thy noble self. Oh, do not repent thee 
of thy choice; ’tis hard to bear alone danger, so long en- 
countered hand in hand, yet as thou hast decided let it be. 
Thy words have soothed my yearning heart, which craved to 
list thy voice once more ; and now then, my noble liege and 
brother, farewell. Think on thy Nigel’s words; even when 
misery is round thee thou shalt, thou shalt be blessed. 
Think on them, my Robert, and then when joy and liberty 
and conquest crown thee, oh, forget not Nigel.” 

He threw his arms around him, imprinted a fervent kiss 
on his cheek, and was out of sight ere the king by sign or 
word could arrest his progress. One hasty bound forward 
Robert indeed made, but a dimness stole over his sight, and 
for one brief minute he sunk down on the grass, and when 
he lifted his head again, there were burning tears upon 
his cheek. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

The hardships and dangers attendant on King Robert’s 
progress southward, mingled as they were with the very 
spirit of romance, are so well known to every reader of Scot- 
tish history that they must be excluded from our pages, al- 
though a tale of chivalry would seem the very place for 
their insertion. 

The life of no hero, no sovereign, no general, presents us 
with a parallel to the lone and dreary passage of Loch Lo- 
mond. We hear of an ancient and a modern Hannibal 
crossing the snowy Alps, but it was at the head of trium- 
phant armies; it was carrying war and victory into an ene- 
my’s land, and there was glory in the danger — the glory and 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


163 


pride of successful ambition. But there was greater and 
truer heroism in the spirit which struggled on when the 
broad, deep waters of Loch Lomond lay between them and 
comparative safety; w T hen ’mid falling snow and howling 
winds he cheered his drooping and exhausted followers by 
reading aloud a spirit-stirring romance, to which they lis- 
tened enwrapt and charmed, little imagining their own 
situation was one of far greater peril, of more exciting ro- 
mance than any which the volume so vividly described. A 
leaky boat, which scarcely allowed three men to cross in 
safety, was their only means of conveyance, and a day and 
night passed ere the two hundred followers of the Bruce 
assembled on the opposite side. The cheerful blast of his 
bugle, which sounded to form them in bands before him on 
the beach, was answered by one whose unexpected appear- 
ance occasioned such joy to the heart of the king, that the 
exertions both of body and mind of the last few hours were 
forgotten. It was the Earl of Lennox, who since the fatal 
battle of Methven had been numbered among the dead, 
and lamented by his royal master with grief as deep as the 
joy was exceeding which greeted him again. Mutual was 
the tale of suffering each had to relate, few and faint the 
hopes and prospects to communicate, but so many were the 
friends the patriots had lost, that the reappearance of the 
venerable nobleman infused a new and brighter spirit amid 
the almost despairing men. 

That the Earl of Lennox had found a kind and hos- 
pitable home in the dominions of the Lord of the Isles, and 
received welcome and favor from the chieftain himself, was 
justly a subject of rejoicing to the fugitive king. Guided 
by him, the intricacies of their path were smoothed, and 
they reached their destination in a much shorter time than 
would otherwise have been the case. Sir Niel Campbell 
had performed his mission well, and kindness and truth so 
long unknown, now eagerly opened their hearths and hearts 
to the patriot king. Scorning alike the Scottish and Eng- 
lish authority, Angus, Lord of the Isles, had formed an in- 
dependent sovereignty, and now felt pride in receiving in his 
territories the only sovereign he had felt inclination to re- 
vere. The daring heroism, the unshaken spirit of the Bruce, 
were akin to his own wild and reckless courage, and had 
there been no actual claim and right in Robert’s pretensions 
to the crown, Angus would still have declared that he, and he 
alone, was the sovereign worthy to assume it. All, then, of 
state and dignity which he could assemble round him were 


164 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


proffered to the king, and had there been less generosity, less 
chivalric honor in his character King Robert might have 
passed the winter months in comparative security and com- 
fort. 

Angus indeed spoke daringly and slightingly of the Eng- 
lish force, and had his inmost soul been read, would have 
joyed had they ventured to attack him, that he might show 
his skill and bravery in resisting and defending against their 
united force the sovereign who had confided in his gallantry 
and honor; but Robert knew better than the rude chieftain 
the devastating warfare which characterized Edward’s ef- 
forts at subjection, and his whole soul shrunk from exposing 
Angus and his true-hearted followers to the utter ruin 
which, if he were once known to be among them, would 
inevitably ensue. At once to secure his personal conceal- 
ment, and yet to withdraw from Cantire without in any way 
offending the high spirit of the island chieftain, Bruce re- 
solved on making the little island of Rathlin the winter 
refuge of himself and his two hundred followers. 

Inhabited by the MacDonalds, who were of course sub- 
ject to their general chief, though divided from him by the 
channel, Bruce was still under the generous protection of 
his friend, and therefore Angus could bring forward no ob- 
jection to the proposal, save the miserable poverty, the many 
discomforts of the barren islet, and entreat with all his 
natural eloquence that King Robert would still remain in 
the peninsula. The arguments of the king, however, pre- 
vailed. A small fleet, better manned than built, was in- 
stantly made ready for his service, and Angus himself con- 
veyed the king in his own galley to his destined residence. 
The aspect of the island, the savage appearance and manner 
of its inhabitants were indeed such as to strike despondingly 
and painfully on the hearts of any less inured to suffering 
than King Robert and his devoted adherents. To them it 
was welcome, for they justly felt the eye of Edward could 
scarcely reach them there. It was a painful alternative to 
warrior spirits such as theirs that the safety of their coun- 
try depended on their inaction and concealment; yet as 
their king, their patriot king, was still among them, there 
was much, much to hope and cherish still. That their gen- 
tler friends and relatives were, they hoped and believed, in 
a place of safety, was a matter of rejoicing, though neither 
entreaty nor command could persuade the Lady Campbell 
and her daughter Isoline to accept the proffered hospitality 
of the island chieftain. It was nothing to them that they 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


165 


were the only females ’mid that warrior train, that many 
hardships were around them still. Neither Sir Niel nor the 
king could resist their pleadings, and ere the sun of spring 
had shed its influence on the heart of man as well as the 
hardened earth, there were many who mourned that a 
separation had taken place, wflo wished that fatigue and 
anxiety had still been met together. 

Many weeks before King Robert retreated to the is- 
land of Rathlin, Sir Nigel Bruce had conducted his pre- 
cious charge in safety to the castle of Kildrummie, whose 
feeble garrison gladly flung open their gates to receive them. 

It was a strong fortress situated on a circular mount, 
overhanging the river Don, which at that point ever rushed 
darkly and stormily along; the mount, though not steep, 
was full two miles in circumference, from base to brow oc- 
cupied by the castle, which was erected in that massive yet 
irregular form peculiar to the architecture of the middle 
ages. A deep, broad moat or fosse, constantly supplied by 
the river, defended the castle wall, which ran round the 
mound, irregularly indeed, for there were indentations and 
sharp angles, occasioned by the uneven ground, each of 
which was guarded by a strong turret or tower, rising from 
the wall. The wall itself was some four-and-twenty feet in 
height, and nine in thickness, consequently the spaces be- 
tween the turrets on the top of the wall formed broad level 
platforms, which in a case of a siege were generally kept 
strongly guarded. Facing the east, and commanding a 
view of the river and adjacent country, stood the barbacan 
gate and drawbridge, which latter was further defended by 
strong oaken doors and an iron portcullis, forming the great 
gate of the castle wall, and the principal entrance into the 
fortress. Two towers of immense strength, united by a 
narrow, dimly-lighted passage, guarded this gate, and on 
these depended the grate or portcullis, which was lowered 
or raised by internal machinery. Within the castle wall was 
the outer ballium or court, containing some small, low- 
roofed dwellings, the residence of many feudal retainers of 
the baron. A rude church or chapel was also within this 
court, holding a communication with the keep or principal 
part of the castle by means of a passage in the third wall, 
which divided the ballium from the inner court. In very 
large castles there were in general a second fosse, wall, gate, 
and towers guarding the keep, and thus making a complete 
division between it and the ballium; but the original own- 
ers of Kildrummie, less rich and powerful suzerains than 


166 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


their equals in South Britain, were probably contented with 
merely a stout wall to divide their own sovereign residence 
from their more plebeian followers. The keep itself, con- 
structed like all other similar buildings of the age, was a 
massive tower, covering but a small square, and four or five 
stories high. There were attempts at luxury in the chambers 
within, but to modern taste the Norman luxury was little 
better than rudeness; and certainly though the cushions 
were soft and richly embroidered, the arras in some of the 
apartments splendid specimens of needlework, and the beau- 
tifully carved and often inlaid oaken walls of others, gave 
evidence of both taste and talent, yet the dim light seemed 
to shed a gloom and heaviness over the whole range of rooms 
and passages, which no skill of workmanship or richness 
of material could remove. The windows were invariably 
small, and very long and narrow, and set in walls of such 
huge thickness, that the sun had barely power even in his 
summer splendor, to penetrate the dusky panes. In this 
keep was the great hall of audience, and for the banquet, at 
the upper end of which the dais was invariably found, and 
dark and loathsome dungeons formed its basement. 

The roof of Kildrummie keep was flatter than the gener- 
ality of Norman castles, its four angles being surmounted 
more by the appearance than the reality of turrets ; but one 
rose from the centre, round, and pierced by loopholes, tur- 
reted at the top, and commanding an extensive view of the 
adjoining country: from this tower the banner of the baron 
always waved, and its non-appearance excited some indig- 
nation in the breast of Nigel Bruce, for his warrior spirit 
had no sympathy with that timorous excuse, that did it 
wave at such a time it might excite the attention of the 
English, whereas did it elevate no symbol of defiance its 
garrison might pass unquestioned. 

“ Up with the banner of Scotland and the Bruce ! ” were 
the first commands of Sir Nigel, as he stood within the bal- 
lium, surrounded by his charge and followers. “ Shall we, 
pledged as we are to our country and king, even seem to 
stand neutral and conceal our colors, as ashamed of them? 
Shall this be? ” 

He was answered by a simultaneous rush toward the 
keep, and at his word the folds of the broad banner waved 
exultingly from the tower, its appearance hailed by a loud 
shout from those beneath, and by a bright and momentary 
gleam of sunshine flashing through the heavy clouds. 

“ Ha ! see ye, my friends, even heaven smiles on us,” ex- 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


167 


claimed the young knight triumphantly, and smiling cheer- 
ily on his fair friends, as with gay words and graceful ac- 
tion he marshalled them into the keep. It was while doing 
so, that Agnes marked the figure of an old yet majestic- 
looking man, whose eyes, still bright and flashing, though 
his white hair denoting extreme old age, were fixed im- 
movably on the face and form of Nigel. It was a peculiar 
glance, strained, eager, and yet mournful, holding her at- 
tention so fascinated that she paused in her onward way, 
and pointed him out to Nigel. 

“ I know him not, love,” he said, in answer to her in- 
quiry. “ I should deem him minstrel by his garb, or seer, 
or both perchance, as is sometimes the case, conjoined. I 
will speak with him when my present grateful task is done.” 

But it was the next morning ere he had the opportunity 
of doing so, for much devolved on the young seneschal. He 
had to visit the outworks, the stores, the offices, to give 
multitudinous orders, and receive various intelligences, to 
review the present garrison and his own followers, and as- 
sign to each his post; and though ably aided by Sir 
Christopher Seaton and other of his officers, all this occu- 
pied much time. The outworks he found in excellent con- 
dition; the barbacan, of massive stone, seemed well en- 
abled to resist attack, should it be made; the machinery of 
the drawbridge was in good order, and enabled to be drawn 
up or let down at a moment’s warning. The stores and 
granaries, which were contained in the towers on the castle 
wall, were very amply provided, though Nigel, taking ad- 
vantage of the present peaceful temper of the country, dis- 
patched trusty messengers without delay for further sup- 
plies. That this fortress, almost the only one remaining to 
his brother, would remain unmolested, Nigel did not for 
one moment believe, but he did hope that, in case of a siege, 
if amply provided with stores, it might hold out till the in- 
tense cold of the season and climate would turn the besieg- 
ers from their purpose; at all events, the advancing winter 
would be more favorable to the besieged than the besiegers, 
and though the garrison was comparatively small, the place 
itself was of such great strength as to guarantee the indul- 
gence of his hopes. That the original garrison were too 
timorous and wavering for him to place much dependence 
on them he readily perceived, but he trusted much to the 
beneficial influence which his own steady, true-hearted fol- 
lowers might be enabled to infuse. 

Nigel was young, brave, and animated by every feeling 


168 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


which inspires courage and hope in the buoyant heart of 
youth. The gloom which had oppressed him in parting 
with his brother, and indeed had partially clouded his spirit 
during their rapid journey, vanished before the duties and 
responsibilities which thronged round him, now that he 
felt himself the guard and seneschal of the castle intrusted 
to his charge; now that new duties devolved on him, duties 
particularly dear to a young and gallant spirit like his own ; 
duties, too, that bound him closer and closer with the gentle 
being in whose welfare and happiness his own were shrined. 
It was with a bright smile, then, and animated brow he 
joined his Agnes early the following morning, in a stroll 
through a small woody inclosure dignified by the name of 
garden, which occupied part of the inner court. The old 
minstrel who had so attracted the attention of Agnes was 
there before them. He stood against a projecting buttress, 
his arms folded, his eyes fixed, it seemed on vacancy, and 
evidently not aware he was approached till Nigel spoke. 

“ Good morrow, father. I thought we had been the ear- 
liest to greet this fresh and frosty air, save those on guard, 
yet you are before us. Nay, wherefore doff thy cap, 
good father? The air is somewhat too frosty for thy sil- 
vered head.” 

“ I cannot doff it to a nobler, gentle youth,” answered 
the old man, courteously, “ save to my sovereign’s self ; 
and as his representative, I pay willing homage to his 
brother.” 

“ Ha ! dost thou know me, father ? And was it because 
I am King Robert’s brother thine eyes so rested on me yes- 
termorn, mournfully, methought, as if the joy with which 
I hailed the gleam of sunshine smiling on our banner had 
little echo in thy breast ? ” 

“ Not that, not that,” answered the old man, tremulous- 
ly ; “I scarce remarked it, for my thoughts were in that 
future which is sometimes given me to read. I saw thee, 
noble youth, but ’twas not here. Dim visions come across 
my waking hours; it is not well to note them,” and he 
turned away as if he might not meet those eager eyes. 

“ Not here ! yet I was at his side, good father,” and 
Agnes laid her fair hand on the old man’s arm. 

“ Thou wert, thou wert, my child. Beautiful, beauti- 
ful ! ” he half whispered, as he laid his hand dreamily on 
those golden curls, and looked on her face ; “ yet hath sor- 
row touched thee, maiden. Thy morn of life hath been o’er- 
clouded; its shadow lingers yet.” 


THE DAYS OE BRUCE. 


169 


“ Too truly speakest thou, father/’ replied Nigel, draw- 
ing Agnes closer to his heart, for tears were starting in her 
eyes; “yet will not love soon chase that sorrow? Thou 
who canst penetrate the future, seer of the Bruce’s line, tell 
me, shall she not be mine ? ” 

The old man looked on them both, and then his eyes be- 
came fixed on vacancy ; long and painfully once or twice he 
passed his hand across his high, pale brow. 

“Vain, vain,” he said, sadly; “but one vision comes to 
mine aching sight, and there she seems thine own. She is 
thine own — but I know not how that will be. Ask me no 
more; the dream is passing. ’Tis a sad and fearful gift. 
Others may triumph in the power, but for me ’tis sad, ’tis 
very sad.” 

“ Sad! nay, is it not joy, the anticipating joy,” answered 
Nigel, with animation, “ to look on a beloved one, and mark, 
amid the clouds of distance, glory, and honor, and love en- 
twining on his path ? to look through shades of present sor- 
row, and discern the sunbeam afar off — is there not joy in 
this?” 

“ Aye, gentle youth ; but now, oh, now is there aught in 
Scotland to whisper these bright things? There was re- 
joicing, and glory, and triumph around the patriot Wallace. 
Scotland sprung from her sluggish sleep, and gave back her 
echo to his inspiring call. I looked upon the hero’s beam- 
ing brow, I met the sparkle of his brilliant eye, I bowed 
before the native majesty of his god-like form, but there 
was no joy for me. Dark masses of clouds closed round the 
present sunshine; the present fled like a mist before them, 
and they oped, and then — there was still Wallace; but oh! 
how did I see him? the scaffold, the cord, the mocking 
crowds, the steel-clad guards — all, all, even as he fell. My 
children! my children! was there joy in this?” 

There was a thrilling pathos in the old man’s voice that 
touched the very heart of his listeners. Agnes clung closer 
to the arm of her betrothed, and looked up tearfully in his 
face ; his cheek was very pale, and his lip slightly quivered. 
There was evidently a desire to speak, to utter some inquiry, 
but he looked on that sweet face upturned to his, and the 
unspoken words died in an inarticulate murmur on his lips. 

“ My brother,” he said, at length, and with some diffi- 
culty, though it was evident from the expression of his 
countenance this was not the question he had meant to ask, 
“ my noble brother, will thy glorious struggles, thy persever- 
ing valor, end in this? No, no, it cannot be. Prophet and 


170 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


seer, hast thou e’er gazed on him — him, the hope, the joy, 
the glory of the line of Bruce? Hast thou gazed on him, 
and was there no joy there? ” 

“Yes! ” answered the old man, starting from his pos- 
ture of despondency, and raising his hands with animated 
fervor, while his cheek flushed, and his eyes, fixed on dis- 
tance, sparkled with all the fire of youth. “Yes! I have 
gazed upon that face, and in present and in future it is 
glorious still. Thick mists have risen round him, well-nigh 
concealing him within their murky folds, but still, still as a 
star penetrating through cloud, and mist, and space, till it 
sees its own bright semblance in the ocean depths, so has 
that brow, circled by its diadem of freedom, gleamed back 
upon mine aching sight, and I have seen and known there 
is joy for Bruce and Scotland yet! ” 

“ Then is there joy for all true Scottish men, good fa- 
ther, and so will we chase all sadness from our brows and 
hearts,” replied Nigel, lightly. “ Come, tell us of the past, 
and not the future, while we stroll; thou hast traditions, 
hast thou not, to while away an hour ? ” 

“ Nay, my young lord,” replied the seer, “ hast thou not 
enough in the present, embodied as it is in this fair maid- 
en’s dreaming eye and loving heart? The minstrel’s harp 
and ancient lore are for the evening hour, not for a time 
and companion such as this,” and with an audible blessing, 
he turned away, leaving them to their stroll together. 

It was not, however, without an effort Nigel could take 
advantage of his absence, and make good use of moments 
so blissful to hearts that love. There was something in the 
old man’s mournful tone and glance when it rested upon him, 
that answered strangely and sadly to the spirit-voice breath- 
ing in his own cold breast. It seemed to touch that chord 
indefinably, yet felt by the vibration of every nerve which 
followed. He roused himself, however, and ere they joined 
the morning meal, there was a brighter smile on the lip and 
heart of Agnes than there had rested there for many a long 
day. 

For a few weeks there was peace both within and without 
the castle of Kildrummie. The relief, the shelter which its 
walls afforded to the wearied and exhausted wanderers was 
at first felt and enjoyed alone. Many of the frailer sex 
were far too exhausted and disabled by a variety of suffer- 
ings, to be sensible of anything but that greater comforts 
than had been theirs for many painful months were now 
possessed ; but when their strength became partially re- 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


171 


stored, when these comforts became sufficiently familiar to 
admit of other thoughts, the queen’s fortitude began to 
waver. It was not the mere impulse of the moment wdiich 
caused her to urge her accompanying her husband, on the 
plea of becoming more and more unworthy of his love if 
separated from him. Margaret of Mar was not born for a 
heroine; more especially to act on such a stormy stage as 
Scotland. Full of kindly feeling, of affection, confidence, 
gentleness, one that would have drooped and died had her 
doom been to pass through life unloved, her yielding mind 
took its tone and coloring from those with whom she most 
intimately associated; not indeed from the rude and evil, 
for from those she intuitively shrunk. Beneath her hus- 
band’s influence, cradled in his love, her spirit received and 
cherished the reflection of his strength; of itself, she too 
truly felt it had none; and consequently when that beloved 
one was far away, the reflection passed from her mind even 
as the gleam of his armor from the mirror on which it 
glanced, and Margaret was weak and timorous again. She 
had thought, and hoped, and prayed, her unfeigned admira- 
tion of Isabella of Buchan, her meek and beautiful ap- 
preciation of those qualities and candid acknowledgment 
that such was the character most adapted to her warrior 
husband, would bring more steadiness and courage to her 
own woman breast. Alas ! the fearful fate which had over- 
taken the heroic countess came with such a shock to the 
w T eaker soul of Margaret, that if she had obtained any in- 
crease of courage, it was at once annihilated, and the de- 
sponding fancy entered her mind that if evil reached one so 
noble, so steadfast in thought and in action, how might she 
hope to escape; and now, when weakened and depressed 
alike by bodily and mental suffering, such fancies obtained 
so much possession of her that she became more and more 
restless. The exertions of Sir Nigel and his companions, 
even of her own friends, failed in rousing or infusing 
strength. Sometimes it was vague conjectures as to the 
fate of her husband, the dread that he had fallen into the 
hands of his foes — a catastrophe which not only herself but 
many stronger minds imagined could scarcely be avoided. 
She would dwell on these fancies till suspense became intol- 
erable; and then, if these were partially calmed, came per- 
sonal fears: the belief that if attacked the castle could not 
muster force enough for defence; suspicions of treachery 
in the garrison, and other symptoms of the wavering nature 
of her mind, till Sir Nigel felt too truly that if danger did 
12 


172 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


come she would not stay to meet it. Her wishes ever turned 
to the sanctuary of St. Duthac in the domains of the Earl 
of Ross, believing the sanctity of the place would be more 
effectual protection than the strongest castle and bravest 
force. In vain Sir Nigel remonstrated, nay, assured her 
that the fidelity of the Lord of Ross was impugned ; that he 
doubted his flattering overtures; that he was known to be 
in correspondence with England. But he spoke in vain — 
the queen persisted in trusting him; that he had ever been 
a friend of her father and brother the Earls of Mar, and 
he would be faithful to her interests now. Her opinion 
weighed with many of the ladies of her court, even among 
those who were not affected with her fears. At such times 
Agnes never spoke, but there was a calm, quiet determina- 
tion in her expression that convinced the Lady Seaton, who 
alone had leisure to observe her, that her resolution was 
already taken and unalterable. 

All that could be done to calm the queen’s perturbed 
spirits by way of amusement Sir Nigel did; but his task 
was not an easy one, and the rumor which about this time 
reached him, that the Earls of Hereford and Lancaster, with 
a very large force, were rapidly advancing toward Aber- 
deenshire, did not lessen its difficulties. He sought to keep 
the information as long as possible from all his female 
charge, although the appearance of many terrified villagers 
flying from their homes to the protection of the castle hard- 
ly enabled him to do so, and confirmed without doubt the 
truth of what he had heard. Nigel felt the moment of peril 
was approaching, and he nerved both mind and frame to 
meet it. The weak terrors of the queen and some of her 
train increased with every rumor, and, despite every per- 
suasion of Sir Nigel, Seaton, and other brave and well- 
tried warriors, she rested not till a negotiation was entered 
into with the Earl of Ross to grant them a safe conduct 
through his lands, and permission to enter the sanctuary of 
St. Duthac. 

Perplexed with many sad thoughts, Nigel Bruce was one 
day slowly traversing a long gallery leading to some unin- 
habited chambers in the west wing of the building; it was 
of different architecture, and ruder, heavier aspect than the 
remainder of the castle. Tradition said that those rooms 
had been the original building inhabited by an ancestor of 
the line of Bruce, and the remainder had been gradually 
added to them ; that some dark deed of blood had been there 
committed, and consequently they were generally kept 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


173 


locked, none of the vassals in the castle choosing to run 
the risk of meeting the spirits which they declared abode 
there. We have before said that Nigel was not supersti- 
tious, though his mind being of a cast which, adopting and 
embodying the ideal, he was likely to be supposed such. 
The particulars of the tradition he had never heard, and 
consequently it was always with a smile of disbelief he lis- 
tened to the oft-repeated injunction not to walk at dusk in 
the western turret. This warning came across him now, 
but his mind was far otherwise engrossed, too much so in- 
deed for him to give more than a casual glance to the rude 
portraits which hung on either side the gallery. 

He mistrusted the Earl of Boss, and there came a fear 
upon his noble spirit that, in permitting the departure of 
the queen and her attendants, he might be liable to the 
ceusure of his sovereign, that he was failing in his trust; 
yet how was he to act, how put a restraint upon his charge ? 
Had he indeed believed that the defence of the castle would 
be successful, that he should be enabled to force the besieg- 
ers to raise the siege, he might perhaps have felt justified in 
restraining the queen — but he did not feel this. He had 
observed there were many discontented and seditious spirits 
in the castle, not indeed in the three hundred of his imme- 
diate followers; but what were they compared to the im- 
mense force now pouring over the country, and whose goal 
he knew was Kildrummie? The increase of inmates also, 
from the number of small villages which had emptied their 
inhabitants into his walls till he was compelled to prevent 
further ingress, must inevitably diminish his stores, and 
when once blockaded, to replenish them would be impossible. 
No personal fears, no weakness of purpose entered the high 
soul of Nigel Bruce, amid these painful cogitations. He 
well knew no shade of dishonor could fall on him; he 
thought not one moment of his own fate, although if the 
castle were taken he knew death awaited him, either by the 
besiegers sword or the hangman’s cord, for he would make 
no condition; he thought only that this was well-nigh the 
last castle in his brother’s keeping, which, if lost, would in 
the present depressed state of affairs be indeed a fatal blow, 
and a still greater triumph to England. 

These thoughts naturally engrossed his mind to the ex- 
clusion of all imaginative whisperings, and therefore was it 
that he drew back the bolt of a door which closed the pas- 
sage, without any of those peculiar feelings that at a less 
anxious time might have possessed him; for souls less gift- 


174 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


ed than that of Nigel Bruce can seldom enter a spot hal- 
lowed by tradition without the electric thrill which so 
strangely unites the present with the past. 

It was a chamber of moderate dimensions to which the 
oaken door admitted him, hung with coarse and faded tapes- 
try, which, disturbed by the wind, disclosed an opening into 
another passage, through which he pursued his way. In the 
apartment on which the dark and narrow passage ended, 
however, his steps were irresistibly arrested. It was pan- 
elled with black-oak, of which the floor also was composed, 
giving the whole an aspect calculated to infect the most 
thoughtless spirit with gloom. Two high and very narrow 
windows, the small panes of which were quite incrusted 
with dust, were the only conductors of light, with the excep- 
tion of a loophole — for it could scarcely be dignified by the 
name of casement — on the western side. Through this 
loophole the red light of a declining winter sun sent its rays, 
which were caught and stayed on what seemed at the dis- 
tance an antique picture-frame. Wondering to perceive a 
picture out of its place in the gallery, Nigel hastily ad- 
vanced toward it, pausing, however, on his way to examine, 
with some surprise, one of the planks in the floor, which, in- 
stead of the beautiful black polish which age had rather 
heightened than marred in the rest, was rough and white, 
with all the appearance of having been hewn and scraped by 
some sharp instrument. 

It is curious to mark how trifling a thing will sometimes 
connect, arrange, and render clear as day to the mind all 
that has before been vague, imperfect, and indistinct. It is 
like the touch of lightning on an electric chain; link after 
link starts up till we see the illumined whole. We have said 
Nigel had never heard the particulars of the tradition; but 
he looked on that misshapen plank, and in an instant a tale 
of blood and terror weaved itself in his mind ; in that room 
the deed, whatever it was, had been done, and from that 
plank the sanguine evidence of murder had been with diffi- 
culty erased. A cold shuddering passed over him, and he 
turned instinctively away, and strode hastily to examine the 
frame which had attracted him. It did contain a picture — 
we should rather say a portrait — for it comprised but one 
figure, the half-length of a youthful warrior, clad in steel, 
save the beautifully-formed head, which was covered only 
by his own luxuriant raven curl’s. In a better light it could 
not have been placed, particularly in the evening; the rays, 
condensed and softened, seemed to gather up their power 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


175 


into one focus, and throw such an almost supernatural glow 
on the half face, give such an extraordinary appearance of 
life to the whole figure, that a casual visitant to that cham- 
ber might well fancy it was no picture but reality on which 
he gazed. But no such emotion was at work in the bosom 
of Nigel Bruce, though his first glance upon that face oc- 
casioned an almost convulsive start, and then a gaze of such 
intense, such almost fearful interest, that he stood as if fas- 
cinated by some overpowering spell. His features, worked 
with internal emotions, flushed and paled alternately. It 
was no weak-minded terror which bound him there, no mood 
in which a step or sound could chill and startle, for so wrapt 
was he in his own strange dreams that he heard not a slow 
and measured step approach him; he did not even start 
when he felt a hand on his shoulder, and the melodious 
voice of the seer caused him to turn slowly around. 

“ The warnings thou hast heard have no power on thee, 
young lord,” he said, slightly smiling, “ or I should not 
see thee here at this hour alone. Yet thou wert strangely 
wrapt.” 

“Knowest thou aught of him, good father?” answered 
Nigel, in a voice that to his own ears sounded hoarse and 
unnatural, and turning his glance once again to the portrait. 
“ My thoughts are busy with that face and yon tale-telling 
plank; there are wild, feverish, incongruous dreams within 
me, and I would have them solved. Thou of all others are 
best fitted to the task, for amid the records of the past, 
where thou hast loved to linger, thou hast surely found the 
tradition of this tower. I shame not to confess there is in 
my heart a deep yearning to learn the truth. Wherefore, 
when thy harp and song have so pleasantly whiled the even- 
ing hours, did not this tale find voice, good father ? ” 

“ Alas ! my son, ’tis too fraught with horror, too sad for 
gentle ears. A few stern, rugged words will best repeat it. 
I love not to linger on the theme; listen then now, and it 
shall be told thee: 

“ In the reign of Malcolm the Second, the districts now 
called Aberdeen and Forfar were possessed, and had been 
so, so tradition saith, since Kenneth MacAlpine, by the 
Lords of Brus or Bris, a family originally from the North. 
They were largely and nobly connected, particularly with 
Norway and Gaul. It is generally supposed the first pos- 
sessions in Scotland held in fief by the line of Bruce can be 
traced back only to the time of David I., in the person of 
Robert de Bruce, an Anglo-Norman baron, whose father 


176 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


came over to England with the Conqueror. The cause of 
this supposition my tale will presently explain. 

“ Haco Brus or Bris was the Lord of Aberdeen in the 
reign of Malcolm the Second. He spent many years abroad, 
indeed, was supposed to have married and settled there, 
when, to the surprise of his vassals, he suddenly returned 
unmarried, and soon after uniting himself with a beautiful 
and accomplished girl, nearly related to the blood-royal of 
Scotland, settled quietly in this tower, which was the strong- 
hold of his possessions. Years passed; the only child of 
the baron, a son, born in the first year of his marriage, grew 
up in strength and beauty, the idol not only of his mother, 
but of his father, a man stern and cold in seeming, even 
morose, but with passions fearful alike in their influence 
and extent. Your eye glances to that pictured face; he was 
not the baron’s son of whom I speak. The affections, nay, 
the very passions of the baron were centred in this boy. It 
is supposed pride and ambition were their origin, for he 
looked, through his near connection with the sovereign, for 
further aggrandizement for himself. There were some who 
declared ambition was not the master-passion, that a deeper, 
sterner, fiercer emotion dwelt within. Whether they spoke 
thus from the sequel, I know not, but that sequel proved 
their truth. 

“ There was a gathering of all the knightly and noble in 
King Malcolm’s court, not perchance for trials at arms re- 
sembling the tourneys of the present day, but very similar 
in their motives and bearing, though ruder and more dan- 
gerous. The wreath of glory and victory was ever given 
by the gentle hand of beauty. Bright eyes and lovely forms 
presided at the sports even as now, and the king and his 
highest nobles joined in the revels. 

“ The wife of the Baron of Brus and his son, now a fine 
boy of thirteen, were of course among the royal guests. 
Though matron grace and dignified demeanor had taken 
the place of the blushing charms of early girlhood, the Lady 
Helen Brus was still very beautiful, and as the niece of the 
king and wife of such a distinguished baron, command- 
ed and received universal homage. Among the combatants 
was a youthful knight, of an exterior and bearing so much 
more polished and graceful than the sons of the soil or 
their more northern visitors, that he was instantly recog- 
nized as coming from Gaul, then as now the most polished 
kingdom of the south. Delighted with his bravery, his 
modesty, and most chivalric bearing, the king treated him 


THE DAYS OF BIIUCE. 


177 


with most distinguished honor, invited him to his palace, 
spoke with him as friend with friend on the kingdoms of 
Normandy and France, to the former of which he was sub- 
ject. There was a mystery, too, about the young knight, 
which heightened the interest he excited; he bore no de- 
vice on his shield, no cognizance whatever to mark his name 
and birth; and his countenance, beautiful as it was, often 
when in repose expressed sadness and care unusual to his 
years, for he was still very young, though in reply to the 
king’s solicitations that he would choose one of Scotland’s 
fairest maidens (her dower should be princely), and make 
the Scottish court his home, he had smilingly avowed that 
he was already a husband and father. 

“ The notice of the king, of course, inspired the nobles 
with similar feelings of hospitality. Attention and kind- 
ness were lavished on the stranger from all, and nothing 
was talked of but the nameless knight. The Lord of Brus, 
who had been absent on a mission to a distant court during 
the continuance of the martial games, was on his return 
presented by the king himself to the young warrior. It is 
said that both were so much moved by this meeting, that 
all present were mystified still more. The baron, with that 
deep subtlety for which he was remarkable, recovered him- 
self the first, and accounted for his emotion to the satisfac- 
tion of his hearers, though not apparently to that of the 
stranger, who, though his cheek was blanched, still kept his 
bright searching eyes upon him, till the baron’s quailed 
’neath his gaze. The hundred tongues of rumor chose to 
speak of relationship, that there was a likeness between 
them, yet I know not how that could be. There is no im- 
press of the fiendish passion at work in the baron’s soul on 
those bright, beautiful features.” 

“ Ha ! Is it of him you speak ? ” involuntarily escaped 
from Nigel, as the old man for a moment paused; “ of him? 
Methought yon portrait was of an ancestor of Bruce, or 
wherefore is it here ? ” 

“ Be patient, good my son. My narrative wanders, for 
my lips shrink from its tale. That the baron and the 
knight met, not in warlike joust but in peaceful converse, 
and at the request of the latter, is known, but on what 
passed in that interview even tradition is silent, it can only 
be imagined by the sequel; they appeared, however, less re- 
served than at first. The baron treated him with the same 
distinction as his fellow-nobles, and the stranger’s manner 
toward him was even more respectful than the mere dif- 


178 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


ference of age appeared to demand. Important business 
with the Lord of Brus was alleged as the cause of his ac- 
cepting that nobleman’s invitation to the tower of Kildrum- 
mie, in preference to others earlier given and more eagerly 
enforced. They departed together, the knight accompanied 
but by two of his followers, and the baron leaving the 
greater number of his in attendance on his wife and child, 
who, for some frivolous reason, he left with the court. It 
was a strange thing for him to do, men said, as he had never 
before been known to lose sight of his boy even for a day. 
For some days all seemed peace and hospitality within the 
tower. The stranger was too noble himself, and too kindly 
disposed toward all his fellow-creatures, to suspect aught of 
treachery, or he might have remarked the retainers of the 
baron were changed; that ruder forms and darker visages 
than at first were gathering around him. How the baron 
might have intended to make use of them — almost all rob- 
bers and murderers by trade — cannot be known, though it 
may be suspected. In this room the last interview between 
them took place, and here, on this silent witness of the 
deed, the hand of the father was bathed in the blood of the 
son ! ” 

“ God in heaven ! ” burst from Nigel’s parched lips, as 
he sprung up. “ The son — how could that be ? how 
known ? ” 

“ Fearfully, most fearfully!” shudderingly answered 
the old man ; “ through the dying ravings of the maniac 
Lord of Brus himself Had not Heaven, in its all-seeing 
justice, thus revealed it, the crime would ever have re- 
mained concealed. His bandit hirelings were at hand to 
remove and bury, many fathoms deep in moat and earth, 
all traces of the deed. One of the unfortunate knight’s fol- 
lowers was supposed to have shared the fate of his master, 
and to the other, who escaped almost miraculously, you owe 
the preservation of your royal line. 

“ But there was one witness of the deed neither time nor 
the most cunning art could efface. The blood lay in a 
pool on the oaken floor, and the voice of tradition whispers 
that day after day it was supernaturally renewed ; that vain 
were the efforts to absorb it, it ever seemed moist and red; 
and that to remove the plank and refloor the apartment was 
attempted again and again in vain. However this may be, 
it is evident that erasing it was attended with extreme diffi- 
culty; that the blood had penetrated well-nigh through the 
immense thickness of the wood.” 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


179 


Nigel stooped down over the crumbling fragment; years, 
aye, centuries had rolled away, yet there it still stood, ar- 
rested it seemed even in its decay, not permitted to crumble 
into dust, but to remain an everlasting monument of crime 
and its retribution. After a brief pause Nigel resumed his 
seat, and pushing the hair from his brow, which was damp 
with some untold emotion, signed to the old man to pro- 
ceed. 

“ That the stranger warrior returned not to Malcolm’s 
court, and had failed in his promises to various friends, was 
a matter of disappointment, and for a time, of conjecture 
to the king and his court. That his followers, in obedience, 
it was said, to their master’s signet, set off instantly to join 
him either in England or Normandy, for both of which 
places they had received directions, satisfied the greater 
number. If others suspected foul play, it was speedily 
hushed up; for the baron was too powerful, too closely re- 
lated to the throne, and justice then too weak in Scotland 
to permit accusation or hope for conviction. Time passed, 
and the only change observable in the baron was, that he be- 
came more gloomy, more abstracted, wrapt up, as it were, 
in one dark remembrance, one all-engrossing thought. To- 
ward his wife he was changed — harsh, cold, bitterly sarcas- 
tic ; as if her caresses had turned to gall. Her gentle spirit 
sunk beneath the withering blight, and he was heard to 
laugh, the mocking laugh of a fiend, as he followed her to 
the grave; her child, indeed, he still idolized, but it was a 
fearful affection, and a just Heaven permitted not its con- 
tinuance. The child, to whom many had looked as likely 
to ascend the Scottish throne, from the failure of all direct 
heirs, the beautiful and innocent child of a most guilty 
father, faded like a lovely flower before him, so softly, so 
gradually, that there came no suspicion of death till the 
cold hand was on his heart, and he lay lifeless before him 
who had plunged his soul in deadliest crime through that 
child to aggrandize himself. Then was it that remorse, 
torturing before, took the form of partial madness, and 
there was not one who had power to restrain, or guide, or 
soothe. 

“ Then it was the fearful tale was told, freezing the 
blood, not so much with the wild madness of the tone, but 
that the words were too collected, too stamped with truth, to 
admit of aught like doubt. The couch of the baron was, at 
his own command, placed here, where we now stand, cover- 
ing the spot where his first-born fell, and that portrait, ob- 


180 


THE DAYS OF BKUCE. 


tained from Normandy, hung where it now is, ever in his 
sight. The dark tale which those wild ravings revealed 
was simply this : 

“ He had married, as was suspected, during his wander- 
ings, but soon tired of the yoke, more particularly as his 
wife possessed a spirit proud and haughty as his own, and 
all efforts to mould her to his will were useless, he plunged 
anew into his reckless career. He had never loved his wife, 
marrying her simply because it suited his convenience, and 
brought him increase of wealth and station; and her ill- 
disguised abhorrence of many of his actions, her beautiful 
adherence to virtue, however tempted, occasioned all former 
feelings to concentrate in hatred the most deadly. More 
than one attempt to rid himself of her by poison she had 
discovered and frustrated, and at last removed herself and 
her child, under a feigned name, to Normandy, and ably 
eluded all pursuit and inquiry. 

“ The baron’s search continued some time, in the hope of 
silencing her forever, as he feared she might prove a dan- 
gerous enemy, but failing in his wishes, he travelled some 
time over different countries, returned at length to Scot- 
land, and acted as we have seen. The young knight had 
been informed of his birthright by his mother, at her death, 
which took place two years before he made his appearance 
in Scotland; that she had concealed from him the fearful 
character of his father, being unable so completely to divest 
herself of all feeling toward the father of her child, as to 
make him an object of aversion to his son. She had long 
told him his real name, and urged him to demand from his 
father an acknowledgment of his being heir to the proud 
barony of the Bruce. His likeness to herself was so strong, 
that she knew it must carry conviction to his father ; but to 
make his identity still more certain, she furnished him with 
certain jewels and papers, none but herself could produce. 
She had done this in the presence of two faithful witnesses, 
the father and brother of her son’s betrothed bride, high 
lords of Normandy, the former of which made it a condition 
annexed to his consent to the marriage, that as soon as pos- 
sible afterward he should urge and claim his rights. Sir 
Walter, of course, willingly complied; they were married 
by the name of Brus, and their child so baptized. A war, 
which retained Sir Walter in arms with his sovereign, pre- 
vented his seeking Scotland till his boy was a year old, and 
then for his sake, far more than for his own, the young 
father determined on asserting his birthright, his child 


THE DAYS OF BKUCE. 


181 


should not be nameless, as he had been; but to spare his 
unknown parent all public mortification, he joined the 
martial games without any cognizance or bearing on his 
shield. 

“ Terrible were the ravings in which the baron alluded 
to the interview he had had with his murdered child; the 
angelic mildness and generosity of the youthful warrior; 
that, amid all his firmness never to depart from his claim — 
as it was not alone himself but his child he would irrepara- 
bly injure — he never wavered in his respectful deference to 
his parent. He quitted the court in the belief that the 
baron sought Kildrummie to collect the necessary papers 
for substantiating his claim; but ere he died, it appeared 
his eyes were opened. The fierce passions of the baron had 
been too long restrained in the last interview; they burst 
even his politic control, and he had flung the papers received 
from the hand of his too-confiding son on the blazing 
hearth, and with dreadful oaths swore that if he would not 
instantly retract his claim, and bind himself by the most 
sacred promise never to breathe the foul tale again, death 
should be its silent keeper. He would not bring his own 
head low, and avow that he had dishonored a scion of the 
blood-royal. 

“ Appalled far more at the dark, fiendish passions he be- 
held than the threat held out to himself, Sir Walter stood 
silent a while, and then mildly demanded to be heard; that 
if so much public mortification to his parent would attend 
the pursuance of his claims at the present time, he would 
consent to forego them, on condition of his father’s solemn- 
ly promising on his deathbed to reveal the truth, and do him 
tardy justice then, but forego them altogether he would not, 
were his life the forfeit. The calm firmness of his tone, it 
is supposed, lashed his father into greater madness, and thus 
the dark deed was done. 

“ That the baron several times endeavored to possess 
himself of the infant child of Sir Walter, also came to light 
in his dying moments; that he had determined to extermi- 
nate root and branch, fearful he should still possess some 
clue to his birth ; he had frantically avowed, but in his last 
hour, he would have given all his amassed treasure, his 
greatness, his power, but for one little moment of assurance 
that his grandson lived. He left him all his possessions, his 
lordship, his name, but as there were none came forth to 
claim, they of necessity passed to the crown.” 

“ But the child, the son of Sir Walter — if from him our 


182 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


line descends, he must have lived to manhood — why did not 
he demand his rights ? ” 

“ He lived, aye, and had a goodly progeny ; but the fear- 
ful tale of his father’s fate related to him again and again 
by the faithful Edric, who had fled from his master’s mur- 
dered corse to watch over the safety of that master’s child, 
and warn all who had the charge of him of the fiend in hu- 
man shape who would probably seek the boy’s life as he had 
his father’s, caused him to shun the idea of his Scottish pos- 
sessions with a loathing horror which he could not conquer ; 
they were associated with the loss of both his parents, for 
his father’s murder killed his devoted mother. He was con- 
tented to feel himself Norman in possessions as well as in 
name. He received lands and honors from the Dukes of 
Normandy, and at the advanced age of seventy and five, ac- 
companied Duke William to England. The third genera- 
tion from him obtained anew Scottish possessions, and 
gradually Kildrummie and its feudal tenures returned to 
its original lords; but the tower had been altered and en- 
larged, and except the tradition of these chambers, the 
fearful fate of the second of the line has faded from the 
minds of his descendants, unless casually or supernaturally 
recalled.” 

“Ha! supernaturally, sayest thou?” interrupted Nigel, 
in a tone so peculiar it almost startled his companion. “ Are 
there those who assert they have seen his semblance — good, 
gifted, beautiful as thou hast described him? why not at 
once deem him the guardian spirit of our house ? ” 

“ And there are those who deem him so, young lord,” an- 
swered the seer. “ It is said that until the Lords of Bruce 
again obtained possession of these lands, in the visions of 
the night the form of the murdered warrior, clad as in yon 
portrait, save with the addition of a scarf across his breast 
bearing the crest and cognizance of the Bruce, appeared 
once in his lifetime to each lineal descendant. Such visita- 
tions are said to have ceased, and he is now only seen by 
those destined like himself to an early and bloody death, cut 
off in the prime of manhood, nobleness, and joy.” 

“ And where — sleeping or waking ? ” demanded the 
young nobleman, in a low, deep tone, laying his hand on the 
minstrel’s arm, and looking fixedly on his now strangely 
agitated face. 

“ Sleeping or waking? it hath been both,” he answered, 
and his voice faltered. “ If it be in the front of the war, 
amid the press, the crush, the glory of the battle, he hath 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


183 


come, circled with bright forms and brighter dreams, to the 
sleeping warrior on the eve of his last fight ; if ” — and his 
voice grew lower and huskier yet — “ if by the red hand of 
the foe, by the captive’s chain and headsman’s axe, as the 
noble Wallace, there have been those who say — I vouch not 
for its truth — he hath been seen in the vigils of the night on 
the eve of knighthood, when the young, aspiring warrior 
hath watched and prayed beside his arms. Boy ! boy ! why 
dost thou look upon me thus ? ” 

“ Because thine eye hath read my doom,” he said, in a 
firm, sweet tone ; “ and if there be aught of truth in thy 
tale, thou knowest, feelest I have seen him. God of mercy, 
the captive’s chain, the headsman’s axe ! Yet ’tis Thy will, 
and for my country — let it come.” 


CHAPTER XVII. 

“ Thou art idle, maiden ; wherefore not gather thy robes 
and other gear together, as thy companions ? Knowest thou 
not in twenty-four hours we shall be, heaven willing, safely 
sheltered under the holy wing of St. Duthac ? ” was Queen 
Margaret’s address to Agnes, about a week ofter the conver- 
sation we have recorded. There were many signs of con- 
fusion and tokens of removal in her scanty train, but the 
maiden of Buchan stood apart, offering assistance when 
needed, but making no arrangements for herself. 

“ I seek not such holy keeping, may it please you, mad- 
am,” she replied. “ I do not quit this castle.” 

“ How ! ” exclaimed Margaret. “ Art thou mad ? ” 

“ In what, royal madam ? ” 

“ Or hath love blinded thee, girl ? Knowest thou not 
Hereford and Lancaster are advancing as rapidly as their 
iron-clad force permits, and in less than seven days the 
castle must be besieged in form ? ” 

“ I know it, madam.” 

“ And thou wilt brave it, maiden ? — dare a danger that 
may be avoided ? Is thy life of so little worth, or if not thy 
life, thy liberty ? ” 

“ When a life is wrapt up in one — when there is none on 
earth save that one to whom that life is of any worth, where- 
fore should I seek safety save by his side ? Royal madam, I 


184 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


am not mad nor blind; but desolate as I am — nay, were I 
not ’twould be the same — I covet to share Sir Nigel’s fate; 
the blow that strikes him shall lay me at his side, be it in 
prison or in death. My safety is with him; and were the 
danger ten times as great as that which threatens now, I’d 
share it with him still.” 

“ Nay, thou art but a loving fool, Agnes. Be advised, 
seek safety in the sanctuary; peril cannot reach us there.” 

“ Save by the treachery of the dark-browed earl, who 
grants that shelter. Nay, pardon me, madam; thou lovest 
not to list that theme, believing him as honorable and faith- 
ful as thyself. God grant he prove so! If,” she added, 
with a faint smile, “ if it be such mad folly to cling to a 
beloved one in danger as in joy, in adversity as in triumph, 
forgive me, royal lady, but thy maidens have learned that 
tale of thee.” 

“ And would to God I could teach them thus again ! ” ex- 
claimed the queen, tears coursing down her cheeks. “ Oh, 
Agnes, Agnes, were Robert here, not death itself should part 
us. For my child’s sake, for his, I go hence for safety. 
Could my resting, nay, my death benefit him, Agnes, I 
would meet it, weak as thou deemest me.” 

“ Nay, nay, I doubt it not, my queen,” answered Agnes, 
soothingly. “ It is best thou shouldst find some place of 
repose till this struggle be past. If it end in victory, it will 
be joy to hail thee once again within its walls; if other- 
wise, better thy safety should be cared for.” 

“ But for thee, my child, is it not unmaidenly for thee to 
linger here ? ” 

“ It would be, royal madam,” and a bright vivid flush 
glowed on her pale cheeks, “ but for the protection of the 
Lady Seaton, who will not leave her husband.” 

“ I may not blame her, after mine own words,” said the 
queen, sorrowfully; yet she is one I could have wished be- 
side me. Ha! that trumpet. Merciful Heaven! is it the 
foe ? ” and trembling with alarm, she dispatched attendant 
after attendant to know the cause. 

The English force was known to be so near that many a 
warrior-heart beat quicker at any unusual blast, and it was 
not marvel the queen’s terrors should very often affect her 
attendants. Agnes alone, amid the maiden train, ever re- 
tained a calm self-possession; strange in one who, till the 
last eventful year, had seemed such a very child. Her 
mother trembled lest the turmoils and confusion of her 
country should ever approach her or those she loved; how 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


185 


might she, timid, nay, often fearful, weak, and yielding, as 
the flower on the heath, how might she encounter storm, 
and grief, and care? Had her mother’s eye been on her 
now, and could have followed her in yet deeper trials, that 
mother scarce had known her child. 

She it was whose coolness enabled her easily to recognize 
and explain the trumpet’s blast. It was an officer with an 
escort from the Lord of Ross, informing the queen that, 
from late intelligence respecting the movements of the Eng- 
lish, he deemed it better they should not defer their de- 
parture from the castle another night. 

On receipt of this message all was increased hurry and 
confusion in the apartments of the queen. The advice was 
to be followed on the instant, and ere sunset the litters and 
mules, and other accommodation for the travellers, waited 
their pleasure in the outer court. 

It was with a mien of princely dignity, a countenance 
grave and thoughtful, with which the youthful seneschal 
attended the travellers to the great gate of the castle. In 
after years the expression of his features flashed again and 
again upon those who looked upon him then. Calmly he 
bade his sister-in-law farewell, and bade, should she be the 
first to see his brother, tell him that it was at her own free 
will and pleasure she thus departed; that neither advice 
nor persuasion on his part had been used; she had of her 
own will released him from his sacred charge; and if ill 
came of it, to free his memory from blame. 

“Trust me, Nigel; oh, surely you may trust me! You 
will not part from me in anger at my wilfulness ? ” entreat- 
ed Margaret, as clinging to his arm, she retained him a few 
minutes ere he placed her in the litter. 

“ In anger, my sweet sister, nay, thou wrongest me ! ” 
he said, a bright smile dispersing a moment the pensive cast 
of his features. “ In sorrow, perchance, for I love not him 
to whose care thou hast committed thyself; yet if ill await 
this castle, and thou wert with me, ’twould enhance its bit- 
terness. No, ’tis better thou shouldst go; though I would 
it were not to the Lord of Ross.” 

“ And wherefore ? ” demanded the deep stern voice of 
the officer beside him. 

“ Because I doubt him, Archibald Macfarlane,” sternly 
replied the young nobleman, fixing his flashing eyes upon 
him ; “ and thou mayest so inform him an thou wilt. An I 
do him wrong, let him deliver the Queen of Scotland and 
her attendants in safety to King Robert, in the forthcoming 


188 


THE DAYS OF BKUCE. 


spring, and Nigel Bruce will crave forgiveness for the 
wrong that he hath done him ; nay, let his conduct give my 
doubts the lie, and I will even thank him, sir.” 

Turning on his heel, he conducted the queen to her lit- 
ter, and bade a graceful farewell to all her fair companions, 
bidding good angels speed them on their way. The heavy 
gates were thrown back, the portcullis raised and the draw- 
bridge lowered, and amid a parting cheer from the men-at- 
arms drawn up in the court in military homage to their 
queen, the cavalcade departed, attended only by the men of 
Boss, for the number of the garrison was too limited to ad- 
mit of their attendance anywhere, save within and on the 
walls. 

With folded arms and an anxious brow, Sir Nigel stood 
beside the gate, marking the progress of the train ; a gentle 
voice aroused him. It playfully said, “ Come to the highest 
turret, Nigel, there thou wilt trace their path as long as 
light remains.” He started, for Agnes was at his side. He 
drew her arm within his own, briefly gave the command to 
close the gate and make all secure, and turned with her in 
the direction of the keep. 

“ Have I done right,” he said, as, when they had reached 
a more retired path, he folded his arm caressingly around 
her, and drew her closer to him, “ to list thy pleadings, dear- 
est, to grant thy boon? oh, if they go to safety, why did I 
listen to thee and permit thee to remain ? ” 

“ Nay, there is equal safety within these walls, Nigel. 
Be assured, thine Agnes hath neither regret nor doubt when 
thou art by her side,” she answered, still playfully. “ I love 
not the sanctuaries they go to seek; the stout hearts and 
trusty blades of warriors like thee and thine, my Nigel, are 
better and truer safeguards.” 

“ Alas ! Agnes, I fear me not in cases such as these. I 
am not wont to be desponding, but from the small number 
of true men which garrison this castle, I care not to ac- 
knowledge I had loved better to meet my foe on open 
ground. Here I can scarce know friend from foe; traitors 
may be around me, nay, in my very confidence, and I know 
it not.” 

“ Art thou not infected with Queen Margarets sus- 
picions, Nigel? Why ponder on such uneasy dreams?” 

“ Because, my best love, I am a better adept in the 
perusal of men’s countenances and manners than many, and 
there are signs of lowering discontent and gloomy cow- 
ardice, arguing ill for unity of measures, on which our 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


187 


safety greatly rests. Yet my fancies may be wrong, and 
at all hazards my duty shall be done. The issue is in the 
hands of a higher power; we cannot do wrong in commit- 
ting ourselves to Him, for thou knowest He giveth not the 
battle to the strong, and right and justice we have on Scot- 
land’s side.” 

Agnes looked on his face, and she saw, though he spoke 
cheerfully, his thoughts echoed not his words. She would 
not express her own anxiety, but led him gently to explain 
to her his plan of defence, and prepare her for all she might 
have to encounter. 

Five days passed, and all within and without the walls 
remained the same; the sixth was the Sabbath, and the 
greater part of the officers and garrison were assembled in 
the chapel, where divine service was regularly read by the 
Abbot of Scone, whom we should perhaps before have men- 
tioned as having, at the king’s especial request, accompanied 
the queen and her attendants to Kildrummie. It was a sol- 
emn yet stirring sight, that little edifice, filled as it was with 
steel-clad warriors and rude and dusky forms, now bending 
in one prayer before their God. The proud, the lowly, the 
faithless, and the true, the honorable and the base, the war- 
rior, whose whole soul burned and throbbed but for his 
country and his king, the coward, whose only thought was 
how he could obtain life for himself and save the dread of 
war by the surrender of the castle — one and all knelt there, 
the workings of those diverse hearts known but to Him be- 
fore whom they bent. Strangely and mournfully did that 
little group of delicate females gleam forth amid the dark- 
er and harsher forms around, as a knot of fragile flowers 
blooming alone, and unsheltered amid some rude old forest 
trees, safe in their own lowliness from the approaching tem- 
pest, but liable to be overwhelmed in the fall of their com- 
panions, whom yet they would not leave. As calmly as in 
his own abbey the venerable abbot read the holy service, and 
administered the rites of religion to all who sought. It was 
in the deep silence of individual prayer which preceded the 
chanting of the conclusion of the service that a shrill, pecul- 
iar blast of a trumpet was heard. On the instant it was 
recognized as the bugle of the warder stationed on the 
centre turret of the keep, as the blast which told the foe 
was at length in sight. Once, twice, thrice it sounded, at 
irregular intervals, even as Nigel had commanded; the 
notes were caught up by the warders on the walls, and re- 
peated again and again. A sudden cry of “ The foe ! ” 
13 


188 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


broke from the soldiers scattered round, and again all was 
silence. There had been a movement, almost a confusion in 
some parts of the church, but the officers and those who 
had followed them from the mountains neither looked up 
nor stirred. The imperative gesture of the abbot com- 
manded and retained order and silence, the service proceed- 
ed; there might have been some faltering in the tones of 
the choir, but the swelling notes of the organ concealed the 
deficiency. 

The eye of Agnes voluntarily sought her betrothed. 
His head was still bent down in earnest prayer, but she had 
not looked long before she saw him raise it, and lift up his 
clasped hands in the evident passionate fervor of his prayer. 
So beautiful, so gloriously beautiful was that countenance 
thus breathing prayer, so little seemed that soul of earth, 
that tears started to the eyes of Agnes, and the paleness of 
strong emotion overspread the cheek, aye, and the quivering 
lip, which the war and death-speaking trumpet had had no 
power to disturb. 

“ Let me abide by him, merciful Father, in weal or in 
woe ; oh, part us not ! ” she prayed again and yet again, and 
the bright smile which now encircled his lips — for he had 
caught her glance — seemed an answer to her prayer. 

It was a beautiful, though perhaps to many of the in- 
mates of Kildrummie a terrible sight, which from the roof 
of the turret now presented itself to their view. The Eng- 
lish force lay before them, presenting many a solid phalanx 
of steel, many a glancing wood of spears. Nor were these 
all; the various engines used in sieges at this time, batter- 
ing-rams, and others, whose technical names are unfortu- 
nately lost to us, but used to fling stones of immense weight 
to an almost incredible distance; arbalists, and the incom- 
parable archer, who carried as many lives as arrows in his 
belt; wagons, heavily laden with all things necessary for a 
close and numerous encampment — all these could be plainly 
distinguished in rapid advance toward the castle, marking 
their path through the country by the smoke of the hamlets 
they had burned. Many and eager voices resounded in va- 
rious parts of the castle; numbers had thronged to the 
tower, with their own eyes to mark the approach of the 
enemy, and to report all they had seen to their companions 
below, triumphantly or despondingly, according to the tem- 
per of their minds. Sir Nigel Bruce and Sir Christopher 
Seaton, with others of the superior officers, stood a little 
apart, conversing eagerly and animatedly, and finally sepa- 


THE DAYS OF BKUCE. 


189 


rating, with an eager grasp of the hand, to perform the 
duties intrusted to each. 

“Ha! Christine, and thou, fair maiden,” exclaimed Sir 
Christopher, gayly, as on turning he encountered his wife 
and Agnes arm-in-arm. “ By mine honor, this is bravely 
done ; ye will not wait in your tiring-bower till your knights 
seek ye, but come for information yourselves. Well, ’tis a 
goodly company, is’t not? as gallant a show as ever mus- 
tered, by my troth. Those English warriors tacitly do us 
honor, and proclaim our worth by the numbers of gallant 
men they bring against us. We shall return the compli- 
ment some day, and pay them similar homage.” 

His wife smiled at his jest, and even felt reassured, for 
it was not the jest of a mind ill at ease; it was the same bluff, 
soldier spirit she had always loved. 

“ And, Nigel, what thinkest thou? ” 

“ Think, dearest ? ” he said, answering far more the ap- 
pealing look of Agnes than her words ; “ think ? that we 
shall do well, aye, nobly well; they muster not half the 
force they led me to expect. The very sight of them has 
braced me with new spirit, and put to ignominious flight 
the doubts and dreams I told thee had tormented me.” 

Movement and bustle now pervaded every part of the 
castle, but all was conducted with an order and military skill 
that spoke well for the officers to whom it was intrusted. 
The walls were manned; pickaxes and levers, for the pur- 
poses of hurling down stones on the besiegers, collected and 
arranged on the walls ; arms polished, and so arranged that 
the hand might grasp them at a minute’s warning, were 
brought from the armory to every court and tower; the 
granaries and storehouses were visited, and placed under 
trustworthy guards. A band of picked men, under an ex- 
perienced officer, threw themselves into the barbacan, de- 
termined to defend it to the last. Sir Nigel and Sir Chris- 
topher visited every part of the outworks, displaying the 
most unceasing care, encouraged the doubting, roused the 
timid, and cheered and inspired the boldest with new confi- 
dence, new hope; but one feeling appeared to predominate 
— liberty and Scotland seemed the watchword of one and all. 

Onward, like a mighty river, rolled the English force; 
nearer and nearer, till the middle of the second day saw 
them encamped within a quarter of a mile from the pali- 
sades and outworks raised on either side of the barbacan. 
Obtaining easy possession of the river — for Sir Nigel, aware 
of the great disparity of numbers, had not even attempted 


190 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


its defence — they formed three distinct bodies round the 
walls, the strongest and noblest setting down before the 
barbacan, as the principal point of attack. Numerous as 
they had appeared in the distance, well provided with all 
that could forward their success, it was not till closer seen 
all their strength could be discovered; but there was no 
change in the hopes and gallant feelings of the Scottish offi- 
cers and their men-at-arms, though, could hearts have been 
read, the timidity, the doubts, the anxious wishes to make 
favorable peace with the English had in some of the origi- 
nal garrison alarmingly increased. 

Before, however, any recourse was made to arms, an 
English herald, properly supported, demanded and obtained 
admission within the gates, on a mission from the Earls of 
Hereford and Lancaster, to Sir Christopher Seaton, Sir 
Nigel Bruce, and others of command. They were sum- 
moned to deliver up the castle and themselves to their liege 
lord and sovereign, King Edward; to submit to his mercy, 
and grace should be shown to them, and safe conduct grant- 
ed to all those who, taking refuge within the walls and 
adopting a position of defence, proclaimed themselves rebels 
and abetters of rebellion ; that they should have freedom to 
return to their homes uninjured, not only in their persons 
but in their belongings; and this should be on the instant 
the gates were thrown open, and the banner of England had 
taken the place of that of Scotland now floating from their 
keep. 

“ Tell thy master, thou smooth-tongued knave,” burst 
angrily from the lips of Sir Christopher Seaton, as he half 
rose from his seat and clenched his mailed hand at the 
speaker, and then hastily checking himself, added, in a 
lower tone, “ Answer him, Nigel; thou hast eloquence at 
thy command, I have none, save at my sword’s point, and 
my temper is somewhat too hot to list such words, courte- 
ous though they may be.” 

“ Tell your master, sir herald,” continued Nigel, rising 
as his colleague flung himself back on his seat, and though 
his voice was sternly calm, his manner was still courteous, 
“ tell them they may spare themselves the trouble, and their 
followers the danger, of all further negotiation. We are 
Scottish men and Scottish subjects, and consequently to all 
the offers of England we are as if we heard not. Neither 
rebels nor abetters of rebels, we neither acknowledge the 
necessity of submitting ourselves to a tyrant’s mercy, nor 
desire the advantage of his offered grace. Beturn, sir 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


191 


herald; we scorn the conditions proposed. We are here for 
Scotland and for Scotland’s king, and for them we know 
both how to live and how to die.” 

His words were echoed by all around him, and there was 
a sharp clang of steel, as if each man half drew his eager 
sword, which spoke yet truer than mere words. Dark brows 
and features stern were bent upon the herald as he left their 
presence, and animated council followed his departure. 

Ho new movement followed the return of the herald. 
For some days no decisive operation was observable in the 
English force; and when they did attack the outworks, it 
was as if more to pass the time than with any serious intent. 
It was a period of fearful suspense to the besiesred. Their 
storehouses were scarcely sufficiently provided to hold out 
for any great length of time, and they almost imagined that 
to reduce them to extremities by famine was the intention 
of the besiegers. The greatest danger, if encountered hand 
to hand in the melee , was welcome, but the very idea of a 
slow, lingering fate, with the enemy before them, mocking 
their misery, was terrible to the bravest. A daring sally 
into the very thickest of the enemy’s camp, headed by Nigel 
and his own immediate followers, carrying all before them, 
and when by numbers compelled to retreat, bearing both 
booty and prisoners with them, roused the English from 
their confident supposition that the besieged would soon be 
obliged to capitulate, and urged them into action. The ire 
of the haughty English blazed up at what seemed such dar- 
ing insolence in their petty foe. Decisive measures were 
resorted to on the instant, and increased bustle appeared to 
pervade both besiegers and besieged. 

“ Pity thou art already a knight, Nigel ! ” bluffly ex- 
claimed Seaton, springing into his saddle by torchlight the 
following morning, as with a gallant band he was about 
dashing over the drawbridge, to second the defenders of the 
barbacan and palisades. “ How shall we reward thee, my 
boy? Thou hast brought the foe to bay. Hark! they are 
there before me,” and he spurred on to the very centre of 
the melee . 

Sir Nigel was not long after him. The enemy was 
driven back with fearful loss. Scaling-ladders were thrown 
down; the archers on the walls, better accustomed to their 
ground, marking their foes by the torches they carried, but 
concealed themselves by the darkness, dealt destruction with 
as unerring hand as their more famous English brethren. 
Shouts and cries rose on either side; the English bore back 


192 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


before the sweeping stroke of Nigel Bruce as before the 
scythe of death. For the brief space of an hour the strife 
lasted, and still victory was on the side of the Scots — glori- 
ous victory, purchased with scarce the loss of ten men. The 
English fled back to their camp, leaving many wounded and 
dead on the field, and some prisoners in the hands of the 
Scots. Ineffectual efforts were made to harass the Scots, as 
with a daring coolness seldom equalled, they repaired the 
outworks, and planted fresh palisades to supply those which 
had fallen in the strife, in the very face of the English, 
many of them coolly detaching the arrows which, shot at too 
great distance, could not penetrate the thick lining of their 
buff coats, and scornfully flinging them back. Several 
sharp skirmishes took place that day, both under the walls 
and at a little distance from them ; but in all the Scots were 
victorious, and when night fell all was joy and triumph in 
the castle ; shame, confusion, and fury in the English camp. 

For several days this continued. If at any time the 
English, by superiority of numbers, were victorious, they 
were sure to be taken by surprise by an impetuous sally 
from the besieged, and beaten back with loss, and so sudden 
and concealed were the movements of Nigel and Seaton, 
that though the besiegers lay closer and closer round the 
castle, the moment of their setting forth on their daring 
expeditions could never be discovered. 

“ Said I not we should do well, right well, sweet Agnes,” 
exclaimed Nigel, one night, on his return from an un- 
usually successful sally, “ and are not my words true ? Hast 
thou looked forth on the field to-day, and seen how glorious- 
ly it went? Oh, to resign this castle to my brother’s hands 
unscathed, even as he intrusted it; to hold it for him, 
threatened as it is ! ” 

He smiled gayly as he spoke, for the consciousness of 
power was upon him — power to will and do, to win and to 
retain — that most blessed consciousness, whether it bless a 
hero’s breast or poet’s soul, a maiden’s heart or scholar’s 
dream, this checkered world can know. 

“ I did look forth, my Nigel, for I could not rest; yet 
ask me not to tell thee how the battle went,” she added, with 
a faint flush, as she looked up in his noble face, beaming as 
it was with every feeling dear to the heart that loved, “ for 
I traced but the course of one charger, saw but the waving 
of one plume.” 

“ And thou didst not fear the besiegers’ arrows, my be- 
loved ? Didst stand in the shelter I contrived ? Thou must 


THU DAYS OF BRUCE. 


193 


not risk danger, dearest; better not list the urgings of thy 
noble spirit than be aught exposed.” 

“ There was no danger, Nigel, at least there seemed 
none,” she said. “ I felt no fear, for I looked on thee.” 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

Had the gallant defenders of Kildrummie Castle been 
conscious that the at first dilatory and then uncertain meas- 
ures of their foes originated in the fact that the Earls of 
Hereford and Lancaster were not themselves yet on the 
field, and that they had with them a vast addition to their 
forces, they would not perhaps have rested so securely on 
the hopes which their unexpected success very naturally 
engendered. Attack on one side they knew they could re- 
sist; their only dread had been that, from the numbers of 
the English, the angle towers, each of which covered a pos- 
tern, might be attacked at once, and thus discover the real 
weakness of their forces. The obstinate struggle for the 
barbacan, the strongest point of the castle, had been wel- 
comed with joy by the Scots, for there they could overlook 
every movement of the besiegers. Some wonder it did 
cause that such renowned knights as the earls were known 
to be, should not endeavor to throw them off their guard by 
a division of attack; but this wonder could not take from 
the triumph of success. 

It was from no want of observation the absence of the 
two earls remained undiscovered by the besieged. Engaged 
on a secret expedition, whose object will be seen in the 
sequel, they had commanded the message demanding sur- 
render to be given in their names, their pavilions to be 
pitched in sight of the castle as if they were already there, 
their banners to wave above them, esquires and pages to be 
in attendance, and their war-cries to be shouted, as was the 
custom when they led on in person. The numerous knights, 
clothed in bright armor from head to heel ever traversing 
the field, assisted the illusion, and the Scotch never once 
suspected the truth. 

Imagining a very brief struggle would deliver the castle 
into their hands* even if its garrison were mad enough to 
refuse compliance with King Edward’s terms, the earls had 


194 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


not hurried themselves on their expedition, and a fortnight 
after the siege had begun, were reposing themselves very- 
cavalierly in the stronghold of an Anglo- Scottish baron, 
some thirty miles southward of the scene of action. 

It was the hour of supper, a rude repast of venison, in- 
terspersed with horn and silver flagons filled with the strong 
liquors of the day, and served up in a rude hall, of which 
the low round arches in the roof, the massive walls without 
buttresses, and windows running small outside, but spread- 
ing as to become much larger within, all denoted the Saxon 
architecture unsoftened by any of the Norman improve- 
ments. 

The earls and their host, with some attendant knights, 
sat as usual round the dais or raised part of the hall, their 
table distinguished it may be by some gold as well as silver 
vessels, and a greater variety of liquor, particularly hypocras 
and claret of the day, the one formed of wine and honey, 
the other of wine and spices ; by the sinnel and wastel cakes, 
but certainly not by the superior refinement of the more 
solid food. The huge silver saltcellar alone divided the 
table of the baron from that of his dependants, yet the dis- 
tinction of sitting above and below the salt was as great 
as the division between the master and servant of the 
present day; the jest, the loud laugh seasoned the viands 
placed before them, and the hearty draught from the wel- 
come flagon. Nor was the baron’s own table much quieter; 
remarks on the state of the country, speculations as to the 
hiding-place of King Robert, and when they should receive 
tidings of the surrender of Kildrummie, formed topics 
of conversation alternately with discussions on the excel- 
lence of the wines, the flavor of the venison, the differ- 
ence between English and Scottish cookery, and such like 
matters, important in the days of our ancestors as in our 
own. 

“ You have ridden long enough to-day, good my lords, to 
make a hearty charge on your suppers; a long journey and 
a tough battle, commend me to them for helps to the appe- 
tite,” said the Scottish baron, joyously inviting them by his 
own example to eat on and spare not. 

“ Commend me to the latter, and ye will,” answered 
Hereford, on whose brow a cloud of something like distaste 
had spread ; u but by mine honor, I love not the business of 
the last week. I have brought it to a close, however, and 
praise the saints for it.” 

“ Bah ! thou art over-squeamish, Hereford. Edward 


THE DAYS OF BKUCE. 


195 


would give us the second best jewel in his chaplet for the 
rich prize we have sent him,” resumed Lancaster. 

“ Reserving the first, of course, for the traitor Bruce 
himself,” interposed their host. “ Ah ! such a captive were 
in truth worth an earldom.” 

“ Then, by my troth, the traitor’s wife is worth a bar- 
ony,” returned Lancaster, laughing ; “ and her fair bevy of 
attendants, among whom are the wives, daughters, and 
sisters of many a rebel, thinkest thou not we shall be high 
in Edward’s favor for them, too? I tell thee we might have 
fought many a good fight, and not have done him such good 
service.” 

“ It may be, it may be,” answered Hereford, impatiently ; 
“ had it been at the sword’s point, had they been prisoners 
by force of arms, I would have joyed too, and felt it was 
good service; but such rank treachery, decoyed, entrapped 
by that foul prince of lies, the Lord of Ross — faugh! I 
could have rammed his treachery back into his throat.” 

“ And done the king, perchance, good service too,” re- 
joined Lancaster, still excessively amused, “ for I have nc> 
faith in a traitor, however he may serve us a while; y^t 
thou art not over-wise, good friend, to let such trifles chaie 
thee thus. Trust me, Edward will think more of the cap- 
tives than the capture.” 

“ There was a time he would not,” answered the earl, 
mournfully ; “ a time, when Edward would have held it 
foul scorn to war with women, and worse than scorn to 
obtain their persons by treachery, as now.” 

“ Aye, but he has changed, and we must change too, 
would we please him,” said the baron ; “ such notions might 
have done in former days, but they are too high-flown for 
the present time, my good lord. I marvel they should have 
lingered so long with thee.” 

A frown gathered on Hereford’s broad and noble brow, 
but remembering the forbearance due to his host, he checked 
an angry reply. “ The king has changed,” he said, “ darkly 
and painfully changed; ambition has warped the noblest, 
knightliest heart which ever beat for chivalry.” 

“ Hush, ere thou speakest treason, Sir Earl; give me not 
the pain of draining another flagon of this sparkling hypo- 
eras to gain strength for thine arrest, good friend,” ex- 
claimed Lancaster, laying the flat of his sword on the earl’s 
shoulder. 

Hereford half smiled. “ Thou art too happy in thy 
light-hearted mirth for me to say aught that would so dis- 


196 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


turb it,” he said; “yet I say, and will say again, would to 
Heaven, I had been before the gates of Kildrummie, and 
left to thee all the honor and glory, and thou w T ilt, of this 
capture.” 

“ Honor and glory, thou bitter piece of satire ! ” re- 
joined Lancaster, holding up a large golden flagon to hide 
his face from the earl. “ Unhappy me, were this all the 
glory I could win. I will wipe away the stain, if stain there 
be, at Kildrummie, an it be not surrendered ere we reach it.” 

“ The stain is with the base traitor Ross, not with thee 
or me,” answered Hereford ; “ His that I abhor the nature of 
such expeditions, that I loathe, aye, loathe communication 
with such as he, and that — if it can be — that worse traitor 
Buchan, that makes me rejoice I have naught before me 
now but as fair a field as a siege may be. Would to God, 
this devastating and most cruel war were over, I do say ! on 
a fair field it may be borne, but not to war with women and 
children, as has been my fate.” 

“ Aye, by the way, this is not the first fair prize thou 
hast sent to Edward; the countess of Buchan was a rare 
jewel for our coveting monarch — somewhat more than pos- 
session, there was room for vengeance there. Bore she her 
captivity more queenly than the sobbing and weeping 
Margaret ? ” 

The question was reiterated by most of the knights 
around the dais, but Hereford evidently shrunk from the 
inquiry. 

“ Speak not of it, I charge ye,” he said. “ There is no 
room for jesting on grief as hers; majestic and glorious she 
was, but if the reported tale be true, her every thought, her 
every feeling was, as I even then imagined, swallowed up in 
one tearless and stern but all-engrossing anguish.” 

“ The reported tale ! meanest thou the fate of her son ? ” 
asked one of the knights. 

“ If it be true ! ” resumed another ; “ believest thou, my 
lord, there is aught of hope to prove it false ? ” 

“ More likely to be true than false,” added Lancaster ; 
“ I can believe anything of that dark scowling villain 
Buchan — even the murder of his child.” 

“I believe it not,” answered Hereford; “bad as that man 

is, hard in heart as in temper, he has too much policy to act 
thus, even if he had no feelings of nature rising to prevent 

it. No, no; I would wager the ruby brooch in my helmet 
that boy lives, and his father will make use of him to for- 
ward his own interests yet.” 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


197 


“ But why then forge this tale ? ” demanded their host ; 
a how may that serve his purpose ? ” 

“ Easily enough, with regard to the vengeance we all 
know he vowed to wreak on his unhappy wife. What deep- 
er misery could he inflict upon her than the belief her boy 
was murdered? and as for its effect on Edward, trust a 
Comyn to make his own way clear.” 

“ But what do with the boy meanwhile ? ” 

“ Keep him under lock and key ; chained up, may be, as 
a dog in a kennel, till he has broken his high spirit, and 
moulds him to the tool he wills,” answered Hereford, “ or 
at least till his mother is out of his path.” 

“ Ha ! thinkest thou the king will demand such sweep- 
ing vengeance? He surely will not sentence a woman to 
death.” 

“ Had I thought so, had I only dreamed so,” replied 
Hereford, with almost startling sternness, “ as there is a 
God above us, I would have risked the charge of treason and 
refused to give her up ! But no, my lords, no ; changed as 
Edward is, he would not, he dared not use his power thus. 
I meant but imprisonment, when I said out of the boy’s 
path — more he will not do ; but even such I love not. Bold 
as it was to crown the rebel Bruce, the deed sprung from a 
noble heart, and noble deeds should meet with noble judg- 
ment.” 

A bugle sounded twice or thrice sharply without, and 
occasioning some bustle at the lower part of the hall, inter- 
rupted for a brief space the converse of the lords. A few 
minutes after, the seneschal, attended by two or three higher 
servants, returned, marshalling in due form two young men 
in the garb of esquires, followed by some fifteen or twenty 
men-at-arms. 

“ Ha! Fitz-Ernest and Hugo; well met, and ye bring us 
good tidings from Kildrummie,” exclaimed both the English 
earls at once, as cap in hand the esquires slowly walked up 
the hall, and did obeisance to their masters. 

“ Yet your steps are somewhat laggard, an they bring 
us news of victory. By my troth, were it not utterly impos- 
sible, I could deem ye had been worsted in the strife,” con- 
tinued the impatient Lancaster, while the cooler and more 
sagacious Hereford scanned the countenances of the es- 
quires in silence. “ Yet and ye come not to tell of victory, 
why have ye come at all ? ” 

“ To beseech your lordship’s speedy return to the camp,” 
replied Fitz-Ernest, after a moment’s hesitation, his cheek 


198 


THE DAYS OF BEUCE. 


still flushed from his masters words. “ There is division of 
purpose and action in the camp, and an ye not return and 
head the attack your noble selves, I fear me there is little 
hope of victory.” 

“ Peace, fool! is there such skill and wisdom needed? 
Division in purpose and action! Quarrelling, methinks, 
had better be turned against the enemy than against your- 
selves. Hugo, do thou speak; in plain terms, wherefore 
come ye ? ” 

“ In plain terms, then, good my lord, as yet we have had 
the worst of it,” answered the esquire, bluntly. “ The 
Scotch fight like very devils, attacking us instead of wait- 
ing for our attack, penetrating into the very centre of our 
camp, one knows not how or whence, bearing off prisoners 
and booty in our very teeth.” 

“ Prisoners — booty — worsted ! Thou durst not tell me 
so ! ” exclaimed Lancaster, furiously, as he started up and 
half drew his sword. 

“ Peace, peace, I pray thee, good friend, peace,” con- 
tinued Hereford, laying his hand on Lancaster’s shoulder, 
wi,th a force which compelled him to resume his seat. “ Let 
us at least hear and understand their mission. Speak out, 
Hugo, and briefly — what has befallen ? ” 

In a few straightforward words his esquire gave all the 
information which was needed, interrupted only now and 
then by a brief interrogation from Hereford, and some 
impatient starts and mutterinp-s from his colleague. The 
success of the Scots, described in a former page, had con- 
tinued, despite the action of the mangonels and other en- 
gines which the massive walls appeared to hold in defiance. 
So watchful and skilful were the besieged, that the greatest 
havoc had been made among the men employed in working 
the engines, and not yet had even the palisades and bar- 
bacan been successfully stormed. 

“ Have they tried any weaker point ? ” Hereford asked, 
and the answer was, that it was on this very matter division 
had spread among the knights, some insisting on carrying 
the barbacan as the most important point, and others advis- 
ing and declaring their only hope of success lay in a divided 
attack on two of the weaker sides at once. 

“ The fools, the sorry fools ! ” burst again from Lancas- 
ter. “ They deserve to be worsted for their inordinate pride 
and folly; all wanted to lead, and none would follow. 
Give you good e’en, my lord,” he added, turning hastily to 
his host ; “ I’ll to the courtyard and muster forth my men. 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


199 


Fitz-Ernest, thou shalt speak on as we go,” and drawing his 
furred mantle around him, he strode rapidly yet haughtily 
from the hall. Hereford only waited to learn all from 
Hugo, to hold a brief consultation with some of his at- 
tendant knights, and he too, despite the entreaties of his 
host to tarry with him at least till morning, left the banquet 
to don his armor. 

“ Silence and speed carry all before them, my good lord,” 
he said, courteously. “ In such a case, though I fear no 
eventual evil, they must not be neglected. I w T ould change 
the mode of attack on these Scotch, ere they are even aware 
their foes are reinforced.” 

“ Eventual evil, of a truth, there need not be, my lord,” 
interposed his esquire, “ even should no force of arms pre- 
vail. I have heard there are some within the walls who 
need but a golden bribe to do the work for us.” 

“ Peace ! ” said the nobleman, sternly. “ I loathe the 
very word betray — spoken or intended. Shame, shame on 
thee to speak it, and yet more shame to imagine it needed! 
Art thou of Norman birth, and deemest a handful of Scotch 
like these will bid us raise the siege and tamely depart? — 
yet better so than gained by treachery.” 

Hugo and the Scottish baron alike shrunk back from the 
reproving look of Hereford, and both silently followed him 
to the courtyard. Already it was a scene of bustling anima- 
tion : trumpets were sounding and drums rolling ; torches 
flashing through the darkness on the mailed coats of the 
knights and on gleaming weapons ; and the heavy tramp of 
near two hundred horse, hastily accoutred and led from 
the stable, mingled with the hoarse winds of winter, howl- 
ing tempestuously around. The reserve which Hereford 
had retained to guard the prisoners so treacherously de- 
livered over to him, was composed of the noblest amid his 
army, almost all mounted chevaliers ; and, therefore, though 
he might not add much actual force to the besiegers, the 
military skill and experience which that little troop in- 
cluded argued ill for the besieged. Some of the heaviest 
engines he had kept back also, particularly a tower some 
four or five stories high, so constructed that it could be 
rolled to the walls, and its inmates ascend unscathed by the 
weapons of their defenders. Not imagining it would be 
needed, he had not sent it on with the main body, but now 
he commanded twelve of the strongest horses to be yoked 
to it, and on went the unwieldy engine, rumbling and stag- 
gering on its ill-formed wheels. Lancaster, whose impa- 


200 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


tience no advice could ever control, dashed on with the first 
troop, leaving his cooler comrade to look to the yoking of 
the engines and the marshalling the men, and with his own 
immediate attendants bringing up the rear, a task for which 
Hereford’s self-command as well fitted him as his daring 
gallantry to head the foremost charge. 

“ Ye will have a rough journey, my good lord; yet an 
ye deem it best, farewell and Heaven speed ye,” was the 
parting greeting of the baron, as he stood beside the impa- 
tient charger of the earl. 

“ The rougher the better,” was that nobleman’s reply ; 
“ the noise of the wind will conceal our movements better 
than a calmer night. Farewell, and thanks — a soldier’s 
thanks, my lord, poor yet honest — for thy right noble wel- 
come.” 

He bent his head courteously, set spurs to his steed, and 
dashed over the drawbridge, as the last of his men disap- 
peared through the outer gate. The Scottish nobleman 
looked after him with many mingled feelings. 

“ As noble a warrior as ever breathed,” he muttered ; “ it 
were honor to serve under him, yet an he wants me not I 
will not join him. I love not the Bruce, yet uncalled, un- 
needed, I will not raise sword against my countrymen,” 
and with slow, unequal steps he returned to the hall. 

Hereford was correct in his surmises. The pitchy dark- 
ness of the winter night would scarcely have sufficed to hide 
the movements attendant on the sudden arrival of a large 
body of men in the English camp, had not the hoarse artil- 
lery of the wind, moaning, sweeping, and then rushing o’er 
the hills with a crashing sound like thunder, completely 
smothered every other sound, and if at intervals of quiet 
unusual sounds did attract the ears of those eager watchers 
on the Scottish walls, the utter impossibility of kindling 
torches or fires in either camp frustrated every effort of dis- 
covery. Hoarser and wilder grew the whirlwind with the 
waning hours, till even the steel-clad men-at-arms stationed 
on the walls moved before it, and were compelled to crouch 
down till its violence had passed. Favored by the elements, 
Hereford proceeded to execute his measures, heedless alike 
of the joyful surprise his sudden appearance occasioned, 
and of the tale of division and discord which Hugo and 
Fitz-Ernest had reported as destroying the unity of the 
camp. Briefly and sternly refusing audience to each who 
pressed forward, eager to exculpate himself at the expense 
of his companions, he desired his esquire to proclaim a gen- 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


201 


eral amnesty to all who allowed themselves to have been in 
error, and would henceforth implicitly obey his commands; 
he returned to his pavilion, with the Earl of Lancaster, 
summoning around him the veterans of the army, and a 
brief consultation was held. They informed him the great- 
est mischief had been occasioned by the injuries done to 
the engines, which had been brought to play against the 
walls. Stones of immense weight had been hurled upon 
them, materially injuring their works, and attended with 
such fatal slaughter to the men who worked them, that even 
the bravest shrunk back appalled; that the advice of the 
senior officers had been to hold back until these engines were 
repaired, merely keeping strict guard against unexpected 
sallies on the part of the Scotch, as this would not only give 
them time to recruit their strength, but in all probability 
throw the besieged off their guard. Not above half of the 
army, however, agreed with this counsel; the younger and 
less wary spurned it as cowardice and folly, and rushing on 
to the attack, ill-formed and ill-conducted, had ever been 
beaten back with immense loss; defeat, however, instead of 
teaching prudence, lashed them into greater fury, which 
sometimes turned upon each other. 

Hereford listened calmly, yet with deep attention, now 
and then indeed turning his expressive eyes toward his col- 
league, as if entreating him to observe that the mischief 
which had befallen them proceeded greatly from impetu- 
osity and imprudence, and beseeching his forbearance. 
Nor was Lancaster regardless of this silent appeal; con- 
scious of his equality with Hereford in bravery and noble- 
ness, he disdained not to acknowledge his inferiority to him 
in that greater coolness, which in a siege is so much needed, 
and grasping his hand with generous fervor, bade him speak, 
advise, command, and he would find no one in the camp 
more ready to be counselled and to obey than Lancaster. To 
tear down those rebel colors and raise those of England in 
their stead, was all he asked. 

“ And fear not that task shall be other than thine own, 
my gallant friend,” was Hereford’s instant reply, his fea- 
tures kindling at Lancaster’s words more than they had 
done yet; and then again quickly resuming his calm un- 
impassioned exterior, he inquired if the mangonels and 
other engines were again fit for use. There were several 
that could instantly be put in action was the reply. Had 
the numbers of fighting men within the castle been ascer- 
tained? They had, a veteran answered, from a prisoner, 


202 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


who had appeared so willing to give information, that his 
captors imagined there were very many malcontents within 
the walls. Of stalwart fighting men there were scarcely 
more than three hundred ; others there were, of whose num- 
ber was the prisoner, who fought because their companions’ 
swords would else have been at their throats, but that they 
would be glad enough to be made prisoners, to escape the 
horrors of the siege. 

“ I am sorry for it,” was the earl’s sole rejoinder, “ there 
will be less glory in the conquest.” 

“ And this Sir Nigel Bruce, whoe’er he be, hath to com- 
bat against fearful odds,” remarked Lancaster ; “ and these 
Scotchmen, by my troth, seem touched by the hoof of the 
arch-deceiver — treachery from the earl to the peasant. 
Hast noticed how this scion of the Bruce bears himself? — 
right gallantly, ’tis said.” 

“ As a very devil, my lord,” impetuously answered a 
knight ; “ in the walls or out of them, there’s no standing 
before him. He sweeps down his foes, line after line, as 
cards blow before the wind ; he is at the head of every charge, 
the last of each retreat. But yesternight there were those 
who marked him covering the retreat of his men absolutely 
alone; his sword struck down two at every sweep, till his 
passage was cleared; he darted on — the drawbridge trem- 
bled in its grooves — for he had given the command to raise 
it, despite his own danger — his charger, mad as himself, 
sprang forward, and like a lightning flash, both disappeared 
within the portcullis as the bridge uprose.” 

“ Gallantly done ! ” exclaimed Lancaster, who had lis- 
tened to this recital almost breathlessly. “ By St. George, 
a foe worthy to meet and struggle with! But who is he — 
what is he ? ” 

“ Knowest thou not ? ” said Hereford, surprised ; “ the 
brother, youngest brother I have heard, of this same daring 
Earl of Carrick who has so troubled our sovereign.” 

“ Nigel, the brother of Robert ! What, the scribe, the 
poet, the dreamer of Edward’s court? a poor youth, with 
naught but his beauty to recommend him. By all good 
angels, this metamorphosis soundeth strangely ! art sure ’tis 
the same, the very same ? ” 

“ I have heard so,” was Hereford’s quiet reply, and con- 
tinuing his more important queries with the veterans 
around, while Lancaster, his gayer spirit roused by this ac- 
count of Nigel, demanded every minute particular con- 
cerning him, that he might seek him hand to hand. 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


203 


“ Steel armor inlaid with silver — blue scarf across his 
breast, embroidered with bis cognizance in gold — blue 
plume, which no English sword hath ever soiled — humph! 
that’s reserved for me — charger white as the snow on the 
ground — sits his steed as man and horse were one. Well, 
gloriously well, there will be no lack of glory here ! ” he 
said, joyously, as one by one he slowly enumerated the sym- 
bols by which he might recognize his foe. So expeditiously 
had Hereford conducted his well-arranged plans, that when 
his council was over, it still wanted two hours to dawn, and 
these Hereford commanded the men who had accompanied 
him to pass in repose. 

But he himself partook not of this repose, passing the 
remainder of the darkness in carefully reviewing the forces 
which were still fresh and prepared for the onset, in examin- 
ing the nature of the engines, and finally, still aided by the 
noise of the howling winds, marshalled them in formidable 
array in very front of the barbacan, the heavy mist thrown 
onward by the blasts effectually concealing their near ap- 
proach. To Lancaster the command of this party was in- 
trusted; Hereford reserving to himself the desirable yet 
delicate task of surveying the ground, confident that the 
attack on the barbacan would demand the whole strength 
and attention of the besieged, and thus effectually cover his 
movements. 

His plan succeeded. A fearful shout, seconded by a tre- 
mendous discharge of huge stones, some of which rattled 
against the massive walls in vain, others flying across the 
moat and crushing some of the men on the inner wall, were 
the first terrific sounds which unexpectedly greeted the 
aroused attention of the Scotch. The armor of their foes 
flashing through the mist, the furious charge of the knights 
up to the very gates of the barbacan, seemingly in sterner 
and more compact array than of late had been their wont, 
the immense body which followed them, appearing in that 
dim light more numerous than reality, struck a momentary 
chill on the Scottish garrison; but the unwonted emotion 
was speedily dissipated by the instant and unhesitating sally 
of Sir Christopher Seaton and his brave companions. The 
impetuosity of their charge, the suddenness of their appear- 
ance, despite their great disparity of numbers, caused the 
English a moment to bear back, and kept them in full play 
until Nigel and his men-at-arms, rushing over the lowered 
drawbridge, joined in the strife. A brief, very brief inter- 
val of fighting convinced both the Scottish leaders that a 
14 


204 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


master-spirit now headed their foes; that they were strug- 
gling at infinitely greater odds than before; that unity of 
purpose, greater sagacity, and military skill were now at 
work against them, they scarce knew wherefore, for they 
recognized the same war-cry, the same banners; there were 
the same gallant show of knights, for in the desperate melee 
it was scarcely possible to distinguish the noble form of 
Lancaster from his fellows, although marking the azure 
plume, which even then waved high above all others, though 
round it the work of death ever waxed hottest; the efforts 
of the English earl were all bent to meet its gallant wearer 
hand to hand, but the press of war still held them apart, 
though both seemed in every part of the field. It was a des- 
perate struggle, man to man; the clash of swords became 
one strange continuous mass of sound, instead of the fear- 
ful distinctness which had marked their work before. 
Shouts and cries mingled fearfully with the sharper clang, 
the heavy fall of man and horse, the creaking of the engines, 
the wild shrieks of the victims within the walls mingled by 
the stones, or from the survivors who witnessed their fall — 
all formed a din as terrific to hear, as dreadful to behold. 
With even more than their wonted bravery the Scotch 
fought, but with less success. The charge of the English 
was no longer the impetuous fury of a few hot-headed young 
men, more eager to despite their cooler advisers, than gain 
any permanent good for themselves. Now, as one man fell 
another stepped forward in his place, and though the slaugh- 
ter might have been equal, nay, greater on the side of the 
besiegers than the besieged, by one it was scarcely felt, by 
the other the death of each man was even as the loss of a 
host. Still, still they struggled on, the English obtaining 
possession of the palisades, though the immense strength of 
the barbacan itself, defended as it was by the strenuous 
efforts of the Scotch, still resisted all attack ; bravely, nobly, 
the besieged retreated within their walls, pell-mell their 
foes dashed after them, and terrific was the combat on the 
drawbridge, which groaned and creaked beneath the heavy 
tramp of man and horse. Many, wrestling in the fierceness 
of mortal strife, fell together in the moat, and encumbered 
with heavy armor, sunk in each other’s arms, in the grim 
clasp of death. 

Then it was Lancaster met hand to hand the gallant foe 
he sought, covering the retreat of his men, who were bearing 
Sir Christopher Seaton, desperately wounded, to the castle. 
Sir Nigel stood well-nigh alone on the bridge; his bright 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


205 


armor, his foaming charger bore evident marks of the fray, 
but still he rode his steed firmly and unbent, his plume 
yet waved untouched by the foeman’s sword. Nearer and 
nearer pressed forward the English earl, signing to his men 
to secure without wounding his gallant foe; round him 
they closely gathered, but Nigel evinced no sign either 
of trepidation or anger, fearlessly, gallantly, he returned 
the earl’s impetuous charge, backing his steed slowly as he 
did so, and keeping his full front to his foe. On, on pressed 
Lancaster, even to the postern; a bound, a shout, and 
scarcely was he aware that his sword had ceased to cross 
with Nigel’s, before he was startled by the heavy fall of the 
portcullis, effectually dividing them, and utterly frustrating 
further pursuit. A cry of rage, of disappointment broke 
from the English, as they were compelled to turn and rejoin 
their friends. 

The strife still continued within and without the barba- 
can, and ended without much advantage on either side. The 
palisades and outward barriers had indeed fallen into the 
hands of the English, which was the first serious loss yet 
sustained by the besieged ; from the barbacan they had gal- 
lantly and successfully driven their foe, but that trifling 
success was so counterbalanced by the serious loss of life 
amid the garrison which it included, that both Nigel and 
Sir Christopher felt the next attack must deliver it into the 
hands of the besiegers. Their loss of men was in reality 
scarcely a third of the number which had fallen among the 
English, yet to them that loss was of infinitely more conse- 
quence than to the foe. Bitter and painful emotions filled 
the noble spirit of Nigel, as he gazed on the diminished 
number of his men, and met the ill-suppressed groans and 
lamentations of those who had, at the first alarm of the 
English, sought shelter and protection in the castle; their 
ill-suppressed entreaties that he would struggle no longer 
against such odds grated harshly and ominously on his ear ; 
but sternly he turned from them to the men-at-arms, and in 
their steadfast bravery and joyous acclamations found some 
degree of hope. 

Yet ere the day closed the besieged felt too truly their 
dreams of triumph, of final success, little short of a miracle 
would realize. Their fancy that some new and mightier 
spirit of generalship was at work within the English camp 
was confirmed. Two distinct bodies were observed at work 
on the eastern and southern sides of the mount, the one 
evidently employed in turning aside the bed of the river, 


206 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


which on that side flowed instead of the moat beneath the 
wall, the other in endeavoring to fill up the moat by a cause- 
way, so as to admit of an easy access to the outer wall. The 
progress they had made in their work the first day, while the 
attention of the Scotch had been confined to the attack on 
the barbacan, was all-sufficient evidence of their intent ; and 
with bitter sorrow Sir Nigel and his brother-in-law felt that 
their only means of any efficient defence lay in resigning 
the long-contested barbacan to the besiegers. An impor- 
tant point it certainly w T as, but still to retain it the walls 
overlooking the more silent efforts of the English must be 
left comparatively unguarded, and they might obtain an al- 
most uninterrupted and scarce-contested passage within 
the walls, while the whole strength and attention of the be- 
sieged were employed, as had already been the case, on a 
point that they had scarce a hope eventually to retain. 
With deep and bitter sorrow the alternative was proposed 
and carried in a hurried council of war, and so well acted 
upon, that, despite the extreme watchfulness of the English, 
men, treasure, arms, and artillery, all that the strong towers 
contained, were conveyed at dead of night over the draw- 
bridge into the castle, and the following morning, Lancas- 
ter, in utter astonishment, took possession of the deserted 
fort. 

Perhaps to both parties this resolution was alike a disap- 
pointment and restraint. The English felt there was no 
glory in their prize, they had not obtained possession 
through their own prowess and skill ; and now that the siege 
had become so much closer, and this point of communica- 
tion was entirely stopped, the hand-to-hand combat, the 
glorious melee , the press of war, which to both parties had 
been an excitement, and little more than warlike recreation, 
had of course entirely ceased, but Hereford heeded not the 
disappointment of his men; his plans were progressing as 
he had desired, even though his workmen were greatly har- 
assed by the continual discharge of arrows and immense 
stones from the walls. 

The desertion of the barbacan was an all-convincing 
proof of the very small number of the garrison ; and though 
the immense thickness and solidity of the walls bespoke 
time, patience, and control, the English earl never wavered 
from his purpose, and by his firmness, his personal gal- 
lantry, his readily-bestowed approbation on all who demand- 
ed it, he contrived to keep his more impatient followers 
steadily to their task; while Nigel, to prevent the spirits 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


207 


of his men from sinking, would frequently lead them forth 
at night, and by a sudden attack annoy and often cut off 
many of the men stationed within the barbacan. The draw- 
bridge was the precarious ground of many a midnight 
strife, till the daring gallantry of Nigel Bruce became the 
theme of every tongue; a gallantry equalled only by the 
consummate skill which he displayed, in retreating within 
his entrenchments frequently without the loss of a single 
man either as killed or wounded. Often would Sir Chris- 
topher Seaton, whose wounds still bound him a most un- 
willing prisoner to his couch, entreat him to avoid such 
rash exposures of his life, but Nigel only answered him with 
a smile and an assurance he bore a charmed life, which the 
sword of the foe could not touch. 

The siege had now lasted six weeks, and the position of 
both parties continued much as we have seen, save that the 
bed of the river had now begun to appear, promising a 
free passage to the English on the eastern side, and on the 
south a broad causeway had stretched itself over the moat, 
on which the towers for defending the ascent of the walls, 
mangonels and other engines, were already safely bestowed, 
and all promised fair to the besiegers, whose numerous 
forces scarcely appeared to have suffered any diminution, 
although in reality some hundreds had fallen; while on the 
side of the besieged, although the walls were still most gal- 
lantly manned, and the first efforts of the English to scale 
the walls had been rendered ineffectual by huge stones 
hurled down upon them, still a look of greater care was 
observable on the brows of both officers and men; and pro- 
visions had now begun to be doled out by weight and meas- 
ure, for though the granaries still possessed stores sufficient 
for some weeks longer, the apparent determination of the 
English to permit no relaxation in their close attack, de- 
manded increase of caution on the part of the besieged. 

About this time an event occurred, which, though com- 
paratively trifling in itself, when the lives of so many were 
concerned, was fraught in effect with fatal consequences to 
all the inmates of Kildrummie. The conversation of the 
next chapter, however, will better explain it, and to it we 
refer our readers. 


208 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

In a circular apartment of the lower floor in Kildrummie 
keep, its stone floor but ill covered with rushes, and the 
walls hung with the darkest and rudest arras, Sir Christo- 
pher Seaton reclined on a rough couch, in earnest con- 
verse with brother-in-law, Xigel. Lady Seaton was also 
within the chamber, at some little distance from the 
knights, engaged in preparing lint and healing ointments, 
with the aid of an attendant, for the wounded, and ready 
at the first call to rise and attend them, as she had done 
unremittingly during the continuance of the siege. The 
countenances of both warriors were slightly changed from 
the last time we beheld them. The severity of his wounds 
had shed a cast almost of age on the noble features of Sea- 
ton, but care and deep regret had mingled with that pallor; 
and perhaps on the face of Xigel, which three short weeks 
before had beamed forth such radiant hope, the change was 
more painful. He had escaped with but slight flesh wounds, 
but disappointment and anxiety were now vividly impressed 
on his features ; the smooth brow would unconsciously 
wrinkle in deep and unexpressed thought; the lip, to which 
love, joy, and hope alone had once seemed natural, now 
often compressed, and his eye flashed, till his whole counte- 
nance seemed stern, not with the sternness of a tyrannical, 
changed and chafing mood — no, ’twas the sternness most 
fearful to behold in youth, of thought, deep, bitter, whelm- 
ing thought; and sterner even than it had been yet was 
the expression on his features as he spoke this day with 
Seaton. 

“ He must die,” were the words which broke a long and 
anxious pause, and fell in deep yet emphatic tones from the 
lips of Seaton ; “ yes, die ! Perchance the example may 
best arrest the spreading contagion of treachery around us.” 

“ I know not, I fear not ; yet as thou sayest he must die,” 
replied Xigel, speaking as in deep thought; “would that 
the noble enemy, who thus scorned to benefit by the offered 
treason, had done on him the work of death himself. I love 
not the necessity nor the deed.” 

“ Yet it must be, Xigel. Is there aught else save death, 
the death of a traitor, which can sufficiently chastise a 
crime like this? Well was it the knave craved speech of 
Hereford himself. I marvel whether the majesty of Eng- 
land had resisted a like temptation.” 


THE DAYS OF BKUCE. 


209 


“ Seaton, he would not,” answered the young man. “ I 
knew him, aye, studied him in his own court, and though I 
doubt not there was a time when chivalry was strongest in 
the breast of Edward, it was before ambition’s fatal poison 
had corroded his heart. Now he would deem all things hon- 
orable in the art of war, aye, even the delivery of a castle 
through the treachery of a knave.” 

“ And he hath more in yon host to think with him than 
with the noble Hereford,” resumed Sir Christopher; “yet 
this is but idle parley, and concerneth but little our present 
task. In what temper do our men receive the tidings of 
this foul treason ? ” 

“ Our own brave fellows call aloud for vengeance on the 
traitor; nay, had I not rescued him from their hands, they 
would have torn him limb from limb in their rage. But 
there are others, Seaton — alas! the more numerous body 
now — and they speak not, but with moody brows and 
gloomy mutterings prowl up and down the courts.” 

“ Aye, the coward hearts,” answered Seaton, “ their good 
wishes went with him, and but low-breathed curses follow 
our efforts for their freedom. Yes, it must be, if it be but 
as a warning unto others. See to it, Nigel; an hour before 
the set of sun he dies.” 

A brief pause followed his words, whose low sternness of 
tone betrayed far more than the syllables themselves. Both 
warriors remained a while plunged in moody thought, which 
Seaton was the first to break. 

“ And how went the last attack and defence ? ” he asked ; 
“ they told me, bravely.” 

“ Aye, so bravely, that could we but reinforce our fight- 
ing men, aided as we are by impenetrable walls, we might 
dream still of conquest; they have gained little as yet, de- 
spite their nearer approach. Hand to hand we have indeed 
struggled on the walls, and hurled back our foremost foes in 
their own intrenchments. Our huge fragments of rocks 
have dealt destruction on one of their towers, crushing all 
who manned it beneath the ruins.” 

“ And I lie here when such brave work is going on beside 
me, even as a bedridden monk or coward layman, when my 
whole soul is in the fight,” said the knight bitterly, and half 
springing from his couch. “ When will these open wounds 
— to the foul fiend with them and those who gave them! — 
when will they let me mount and ride again as best befits a 
warrior? Better slain at once than lie here a burden, not a 
help — taking from those whose gallant efforts need it more 


210 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


the food we may not have for long. I will not thus be 
chained ; I’ll to the action, be my life the forfeit ! ” 

He sprang up, and for a moment stood upon his feet, but 
with a low groan of pain instantly fell back, the dew of 
weakness gathering on his brow. Lady Seaton was at his 
side on the instant to bathe his temples and his hands, yet 
without one reproachful word, for she knew the anguish it 
was to his brave heart to lie thus disabled, when every loyal 
hand was needed for his country. 

“ Nigel, I would that I might join thee. Remember, ’tis 
no mean game we play ; we hold not out as marauding chief- 
tains against a lawful king; we struggle not in defence of 
petty rights, of doubtful privileges. ’Tis for Scotland, for 
King Robert still we strive. Did this castle hold out, aye, 
compel the foe to raise the siege, much, much would be done 
for Scotland. Others would do as we have done; many, 
whose strongholds rest in English hands, would rise and ex- 
pel the foe. Had we but reinforcements of men and stores, 
all might still be well.” 

“ Aye,” answered Nigel, bitterly, “ but with all Scot- 
land crushed ’neath English chains, her king and his bold 
patriots fugitives and exiles, ourselves the only Scottish 
force in arms, the only Scottish castle which resists the 
tyrant, how may this be, whence may come increase of force, 
of store? Seaton, Seaton, thine are bright dreams — would 
that they were real.” 

“ Wouldst thou then give up at once, and strive no 
more ? It cannot be.” 

“ Never!” answered his companion, passionately. “ Ere 
English feet shall cross these courts and English colors wave 
above these towers, the blood of the defenders must flow be- 
neath their steps. They gain not a yard of earth save at the 
bright sword’s point; not a rood of grass unstained by 
Scottish blood. Give up ! not till my arm can wield 
no sword, my voice no more shout 6 Forward for the 
Bruce ! * ” 

“ Then we will hope on, dream on, Nigel, and despair 
not,” replied Seaton, in the same earnest tone. “ We know 
not yet what may be, and, improbable as it seems now, suc- 
cors may yet arrive. How long doth last the truce ? ” 

“ For eighteen hours, two of which have passed.” 

“ Didst thou demand it ? ” 

“ No,” replied Nigel. “ It was proffered by the earl, as 
needed for a strict examination of the traitor Evan Roy, 
and accepted in the spirit with which it was offered.” 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


211 


“ Thou didst well ; and the foul traitor — where hast 
thou lodged him ? ” 

“ In the western turret, strongly guarded. I would not 
seek thy counsel until I had examined and knew the truth.” 

“ And thine own judgment ? ” 

“ Was as thine. It is an ill necessity, yet it must be.” 

“ Didst pronounce his sentence ? ” 

Nigel answered in the affirmative. 

“ And how was it received ? ” 

“ In the same sullen silence on the part of the criminal 
as he had borne during his examination. Methought a low 
murmur of discontent escaped from some within the hall, 
but it was drowned in the shout of approbation from the 
men-at-arms, and the execrations they lavished on the traitor 
as they bore him away, so I heeded it not.” 

“ But thou wilt heed it,” said a sweet voice beside him, 
and Agnes, who had just entered the chamber, laid her hand 
on his arm and looked beseechingly in his face. “ Dearest 
Nigel, I come a pleader.” 

“ And for whom, my beloved ? ” he asked, his counte- 
nance changing into its own soft beautiful expression as he 
gazed on her. “ What can mine Agnes ask that Nigel may 
not grant ? ” 

“ Nay, I am no pleader for myself,” she said; “I come 
on the part of a wretched wife and aged mother, beseeching 
the gift of life.” 

“ And for a traitor, Agnes ? ” 

“ I think of him but as a husband and son, dearest 
Nigel,” she said, more timidly, for his voice was stern. 
“ They tell me he is condemned to death, and his wretched 
wife and mother besought my influence with thee; and in- 
deed it needed little entreaty, for when death is so busy 
around us, when in this fearful war we see the best and 
bravest of our friends fall victims every day, oh, I would 
beseech you to spare life when it may be. Dearest, dearest 
Nigel, have mercy on this wretched man; traitor as he is, 
oh, do not take his life — do not let thy lips sentence him 
to death. Wilt thou not be merciful? ” 

“ If the death of one man will preserve the lives of many, 
how may that one be spared?” said Sir Nigel, folding the 
sweet pleader closer to him, though his features spoke no 
relaxation of his purpose. “ Sweet Agnes, do not ask this; 
give me not the bitter pain of refusing aught to thee. Thou 
knowest not all the mischief and misery which pardon to a 
traitor such as this will do ; thou listenest only to thy kind 


212 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


heart and the sad pleadings of those who love this man. 
Now listen to me, beloved, and judge thyself. Did I believe 
a pardon would bring back the traitor to a sense of duty, to 
a consciousness of his great crime — did I believe giving life 
to him would deter others form the same guilt, I should 
scarce wait even for thy sweet pleading to give him both 
liberty and life; but I know him better than thou, mine 
Agnes. ITe is one of those dark, discontented, rebellious 
spirits, that never rest in stirring up others to be like them ; 
who would employ even the life I gave him to my own 
destruction, and that of the brave and faithful soldiers 
with me.” 

“ But send him hence, dearest Nigel,” still entreated 
Agnes. “ Give him life, but send him from the castle ; will 
not this remove the danger of his. influence with others? ” 

“ And give him field and scope to betray us again, sweet 
one. It were indeed scorning the honorable counsel of 
Hereford to act thus; for trust me, Agnes, there are not 
many amid our foes would resist temptation as he hath 
done.” 

“ Yet would not keeping him close prisoner serve thee as 
well as death, Nigel? Bethink thee, would it not spare the 
ill of taking life ? ” 

“ Dearest, no,” he answered. “ There are many, alas ! 
too many within these walls who need an example of terror 
to keep them to their duty. They will see that treachery 
avails not with the noble Hereford, and that, discovered by 
me, it hath no escape from death. If this man be, as I im- 
agine, in league with other contentious spirits — for he could 
scare hope to betray the castle into the hands of the English 
without some aid from within — his fate may strike such ter- 
ror into other traitor hearts that their designs will be aban- 
doned. Trust me, dearest, I do not do this deed of justice 
without deep regret; I grieve for the necessity even as the 
deed, and yet it must be; and bitter as it is to refuse thee 
aught, indeed I cannot grant thy boon.” 

“ Yet hear me once more, Nigel. Simple and ignorant 
as I am, I cannot answer such arguments as thine ; yet may 
it not be that this deed of justice, even while it strikes 
terror, may also excite the desire for revenge, and situated 
as we are were it not better to avoid all such bitterness, such 
heart-burnings among the people ? ” 

u We must brave it, dearest,” answered Nigel, firmly. 
“ The direct line of justice and of duty may not be turned 
aside for such fears as these.” 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


213 


“Nor do I think they have foundation/’ continued Sir 
Christopher Seaton. “ Thou hast pleaded well and kindly, 
gentle maiden, yet gladly as we would do aught to pleasure 
thee, this that thou hast asked, alas! must not be. The 
crime itself demands punishment, and even could we pardon 
that, duty to our country, our king, ourselves, calls loudly 
for his death, lest his foul treachery should spread.” 

The eyes of the maiden filled with tears. 

“ Then my last hope is over,” she said, sadly. “ I looked 
to thy influence, Sir Christopher, to plead for me, even if 
mine own supplications should fail; and thou judgest even 
as Nigel, not as my heart could wish.” 

“We judge as men and soldiers, gentle maiden; as men 
who, charged with a most solemn responsibility, dare listen 
to naught save the voice of justice, however loudly mercy 
pleads.” 

“ And didst thou think, mine Agnes, if thy pleading was 
of no avail, the entreaty of others could move me ? ” whis- 
pered Nigel, in a voice which, though tender, was reproach- 
ful. “ Dearest and best, oh, thou knowest not the pang it is 
to refuse thee even this, and to feel my words have filled 
those eyes with tears. Say thou wilt not deem me cruel, 
abiding by justice when there is room for mercy? ” 

“ I know thee better than to judge thee thus,” answered 
Agnes, tearfully ; “ the voice of duty must have spoken 
loudly to urge thee to this decision, and I may not dispute 
it; yet would that death could be averted. There was mad- 
ness in that woman’e eyes,” and she shuddered as she spoke. 

“Of whom speakest thou, love?” Nigel asked, and Sea- 
ton looked the question. 

“ Of his wife,” she replied. “ She came to me distract- 
ed, and used such dreadful words, menaces and threats they 
seemed; but his mother, more composed, assured me they 
meant nothing, they were but the ravings of distress, and 
yet I fear to look on her again without his pardon.” 

“ And thou shalt not, my beloved ; these are not scenes 
and words for such as thee. Rest here with Christine and 
good Sir Christopher; to tend and cheer a wounded knight 
is a fitter task for thee, sweet one, than thus to plead a trait- 
or’s cause.” 

Pressing his lips upon her brow as he spoke, he placed 
her gently on a settle by Sir Christopher; then crossing 
the apartment, he paused a moment to whisper to Lady 
Seaton. 

“ Look to her, my dear sister ; she has been terrified, 


214 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


though she would conceal it. Let her not leave thee till 
this fatal duty is accomplished.” 

Lady Seaton assured him of her compliance, and he left 
the apartment. 

He had scarcely quitted the postern before he himself en- 
countered Jean Hoy, a woman who, even in her mildest mo- 
ments, evinced very little appearance of sanity, and who 
now, from her furious and distracting gestures, seemed 
wrought up to no ordinary pitch of madness. She kept 
hovering round him, uttering menaces and entreaties in one 
and the same breath, declaring one moment that her hus- 
band was no traitor, and had only done what every true- 
hearted Scotsman ought to do, if he would save himself and 
those he loved from destruction; the next, piteously ac- 
knowledging his crime, and wildly beseeching mercy. For 
a while Nigel endeavored, calmly and soothingly, to reason 
with her, but it was of no avail : louder and fiercer became 
her curses and imprecations; beseeching Heaven to hurl 
down all its maledictions upon him and the woman he loved, 
and refuse him mercy when he most needed it. Perceiving 
her violence becoming more and more outrageous, Nigel 
placed her in charge of two of his men-at-arms, desiring 
them to treat her kindly, but not to lose sight of her, and 
keep her as far as possible from the scene about to be enact- 
ed. She was dragged away, struggling furiously, and Nigel 
felt his heart sink heavier within him. It was not that he 
wavered in his opinion, that he believed, situated as he was, 
it was better to spare the traitor’s life than excite to a flame 
the already aroused and angered populace. He thought in- 
deed terror might do much; but whether it was the en- 
treating words of Agnes, or the state of the unhappy Jean, 
there had come upon him a dim sense of impending ill ; an 
impression that the act of justice about to be performed 
would bring matters to a crisis, and the ruin of the garrison 
be consummated, ere he was aware it had begun. The shad- 
ow of the future appeared to have enfolded him, but still he 
wavered not; the hours sped: his preparations were com- 
pleted, and at the time appointed by Seaton, with as much 
of awful solemnity as circumstances would admit, the soul 
of the traitor w T as launched into eternity. Men, women, 
and children had gathered round the temporary scaffold; 
every one within the castle, save the maimed and wounded, 
thronged to that centre court, and cheers and shouts, and 
groans and curses, mingled strangely on the air. 

Clad in complete steel, but bareheaded, Sir Nigel Bruce 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


215 


had witnessed the act of justice his voice had pronounced, 
and, after a brief pause, he stood forward on the scaffold, 
and in a deep, rich voice addressed the multitude ere they 
separated. Eloquently, forcibly, he spoke of the guilt, the 
foul guilt of treachery, now when Scotland demanded all 
men to join together hand and heart as one — now when the 
foe was at their gates; when, if united, they might yet bid 
defiance to the tyrant, who, if they were defeated, would 
hold them slaves. He addressed them as Scottish men and 
freemen, as soldiers, husbands, and fathers, as children of 
the brave, who welcomed death with joy, rather than life in 
slavery and degradation; and when his words elicited a 
shout of exultation and applause from the greater number, 
he turned his eye on the group of malcontents, and sternly 
and terribly bade them beware of a fate similar to that 
which they had just witnessed; for the gallant Earl of 
Hereford, he said, would deal with all Scottish traitors as 
with Evan Roy, and once known as traitors within the castle 
walls, he need not speak their doom, for they had witnessed 
it; and then changing his tone, frankly and beseechingly 
he conjured them to awake from the dull, sluggish sleep of 
indifference and fear, to put forth their energies as men, as 
warriors ; their country, their king, their families, called on 
them, and would they not hear ? He bade them arise, awake 
to their duty, and all that had been should never be re- 
called. He spoke with a brief yet mighty eloquence that 
seemed to carry conviction with it. Many a stern face and 
darkened brow relaxed, and there was hope in many a pa- 
triotic breast as that group dispersed, and all was once more 
martial bustle on the walls. 

“ Well and wisely hast thou spoken, my son,” said the 
aged Abbot of Scone, who had attended the criminal’s last 
moments, and now, with Nigel, sought the keep. “ Thy 
words have moved those rebellious spirits, have calmed the 
rising tempest even as oil flung on the troubled waves ; thine 
eloquence was even as an angel voice ’mid muttering fiends, 
yet thou art still sad, still anxious. My son, this should 
not be.” 

“ It must be, father,” answered the young man. “ I have 
looked beyond that oily surface and see naught save darker 
storms and fiercer tempests; those spirits need somewhat 
more than a mere voice. Father, reproach me not as mis- 
trusting the gracious Heaven in whose keeping lie our 
earthly fates. I know the battle is not to the strong, ’tis 
with the united, the faithful, and those men are neither. 


216 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


My words have stirred them for the moment, as a pebble 
flung ’mid the troubled waters — a few brief instants and 
all trace is passed, we see naught but the blackened wave. 
But speak not of these things; my trust is higher than 
earth, and let man work his will.” 

Another week passed, and the fierce struggle continued, 
alternating success, one day with the besiegers, the next 
with the besieged. The scene of action was now principally 
on the walls — a fearful field, for there was no retreat — and 
often the combatants, entwined in a deadly struggle, fell 
together into the moat. Still there were no signs of waver- 
ing on either side, still did the massive walls give no sign 
of yielding to the tremendous and continued discharge of 
heavy stones, that against battlements less strongly con- 
structed must long ere this have dealt destruction and in- 
evitable mischief to the besieged. One tower, commanding 
the causeway across the moat and its adjoining platform on 
the wall, had indeed been taken by the English, and was to 
them a decided advantage, but still their further progress 
even to the next tower was lingering and dubious, and it 
appeared evident to both parties that, from the utter impos- 
sibility of the Scotch obtaining supplies of provision and 
men, success must finally attend the English; they would 
succeed more by the effects of famine than by their swords. 

It was, as we have said, seven days after the execution of 
the traitor Boy. A truce for twelve hours had been con- 
cluded with the English, at the request of Sir Nigel Bruce, 
and safe conduct granted by the Earl of Hereford to those 
men, women, and children of the adjoining villages who 
chose even at this hour to leave the castle, but few, a very 
few took advantage of this permission, and these were most- 
ly the widows and children of those who had fallen in the 
siege; a fact which caused some surprise, as the officers 
and men-at-arms imagined it would have been eagerly seized 
upon by all those contentious spirits who had appeared so 
desirous of a league with England. A quiet smile slightly 
curled the lips of Nigel as this information was reported to 
him — a smile as of a mind prepared for and not surprised 
at what he heard; but when left alone, the smile was gone, 
he folded his arms on his breast, his head was slightly bent 
forward, but had there been any present to have remarked 
him, they would have seen his features move and work with 
the intensity of internal emotion. Some mighty struggle 
he was enduring; something there was passing at his very 
heart, for when recalled from that trance by the heavy bell 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


217 


of the adjoining church chiming the hour of five, and he 
looked up, there were large drops of moisture on his brow, 
and his beautiful eye seemed for the moment strained and 
bloodshot. He paced the chamber slowly and pensively till 
there was no outward mark of agitation, and then he sought 
for Agnes. 

She was alone in an upper chamber of the keep, looking 
out from the narrow casement on a scene of hill and vale, 
and water, which, though still wintry from the total absence 
of leaf and flower, was yet calm and beautiful in the declin- 
ing sun, and undisturbed by the fearful scenes and sounds 
which met the glance and ear on every other side, seemed 
even as a paradise of peace. It had been one of those mild, 
soft days of February, still more rare in Scotland than in 
England, and on the heart and sinking frame of Agnes its 
influence had fallen, till, almost unconsciously, she wept. 
The step of Nigel caused her hastily to dash these tears 
aside, and as he stood by her and silently folded his arm 
around her, she looked up in his face with a smile. He 
sought to return it, but the sight of such emotion, trifling as 
it was, caused his heart to sink with indescribable fear; his 
lip quivered, as utterly to prevent the words he sought to 
speak, and as he clasped her to his bosom and bent his head 
on hers, a low yet instantly suppressed moan burst from him. 

“Nigel, dearest Nigel, what has chanced? Oh, speak 
to me ! ” she exclaimed, clasping his hand in both hers, and 
gazing wildly in his face. “ Thou art wounded or ill, or 
wearied unto death. Oh, let me undo this heavy armor, 
dearest; seek but a brief interval of rest. Speak to me, I 
know thou art not well.” 

“ It is but folly, my beloved, a momentary pang that 
weakness caused. Indeed, thy fears are causeless; I am 
well, quite well,” he answered, struggling with himself, and 
subduing with an effort his emotion. “ Mine own Agnes, 
thou wilt not doubt me; look not upon me so tearfully, ’tis 
passed, ’tis over now.” 

“ And thou wilt not tell me that which caused it, Nigel ? 
Hast thou aught of suffering which thou fearest to tell thine 
Agnes ? Oh ! do not fear ; weak, childlike as I am, my soul 
will find strength for it.” 

“ And thou shalt know all, all in a brief while,” he said, 
her sweet pleading voice rendering the task of calmness 
more difficult. “ Yet tell me first thy thoughts, my love. 
Methought thy gaze was on yon peaceful landscape as I 
entered, and yet thine eyes were dimmed with tears.” 


218 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


“ And yet I know not wherefore,” she replied, “ save the 
yearnings for peace were stronger, deeper than they should 
be, and I pictured a cot where love might dwell in yon calm 
valley, and wished that this fierce strife was o’er.” 

“ ’Tis in truth no scene for thee, mine own. I know, I 
feel thou pinest for freedom, for the fresh, pure, stainless 
air of the mountain, the valley’s holy calm ; thine ear is sick 
with the fell sounds that burst upon it ; thine eye must turn 
in loathing from this fierce strife. Agnes, mine own Agnes, 
is it not so? would it not be happiness, aye, Heaven’s own 
bliss, to seek some peaceful home, far, far away from this ? ” 
He spoke hurriedly and more passionately than was his 
wont, but Agnes only answered : 

“ With thee, Nigel, it were bliss indeed.” 

“ With me,” he said; “ and couldst thou not be happy 
were I not at thy side? Listen to me, beloved,” and his 
voice became as solemnly earnest as it had previously been 
hurried. “ I sought thee, armed I thought with fortitude 
sufficient for the task ; sought thee, to beseech, implore thee 
to seek safety and peace for a brief while apart from me, till 
these fearful scenes are passed. Start not, and oh, do not 
look upon me thus. I know all that strength of nerve, of 
soul, which bids thee care not for the dangers round thee. I 
know that where I am thy loving spirit feels no fear; but 
oh, Agnes, for my sake, if not for thine own, consent to fly 
ere it be too late; consent to seek safety far from this fatal 
tower. Let me not feel that on thee, on thee, far dearer 
than my life, destruction, and misery, and suffering in a 
thousand fearful shapes may fall. Let me but feel thee 
safe, far from this terrible scene, and then, come what will, 
it can have no pang.” 

“ And thee,” murmured the startled girl, on whose ear 
the words of Nigel had fallen as with scarce half their 
meaning, “ thee, wouldst thou bid me leave thee, to strive 
on, suffer on, and oh, merciful Heaven! perchance fall 
alone ? Nigel, Nigel, how may this be? are we not one, 
only one, and how may I dwell in safety without thee — how 
mayest thou suffer without me ? ” 

“ Dearest and best ! ” he answered, passionately, “ oh, 
that we were indeed one; that the voice of Heaven had 
bound us one, long, long ere this ! and yet — no, no, ’tis bet- 
ter thus,” and again he struggled with emotion, and spoke 
calmly. “ Agnes, beloved, precious as thou art in these 
hours of anxiety, dear, dearer than ever, in thy clinging, 
changeless love, yet tempt me not selfishly to retain thee by 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


219 


my side, when liberty, and life, and joy await thee beyond 
these fated walls. Thy path is secured; all that can assist, 
can accelerate thy flight waits but thy approval. The dress 
of a minstrel boy is procured, and will completely conceal 
and guard thee through the English camp. Our faithful 
friend, the minstrel seer, will be thy guide, and lead thee to 
a home of peace and safety, until my brother’s happier for- 
tune dawns; he will guard and love thee for thine own and 
for my sake. Speak to me, beloved; thou knowest this 
good old man, and I so trust him that I have no fear for 
thee. Oh, do not pause, and ere this truce be over let me, 
let me feel that thou art safe and free, and may in time be 
happy.” 

“ In time,” she repeated slowly, as if to herself, and then, 
rousing herself from that stupor of emotion, looked up 
with a countenance on which a sudden glow had spread. 
“ And why hast thou so suddenly resolved on this ? ” she 
asked, calmly ; “ why shouldst thou fear for me more now 
than hitherto, dearest Nigel? Hath not the danger always 
been the same, and yet thou ne’er hast breathed of parting? 
are not thy hopes the same — what hath chanced unknown to 
me, that thou speakest and lookest thus? tell me, ere thou 
urgest more.” 

“ I will tell thee what I fear, my love,” he answered, re- 
assured by her firmness ; “ much that is seen not, guessed 
not by my comrades. They were satisfied that my appeal 
had had its effect, and the execution of Evan Koy was at- 
tended with no disturbance, no ill will among those sup- 
posed to be of his party — nay, that terror did its work, and 
all ideas of treachery which might have been before en- 
couraged were dismissed. I, too, believed this, Agnes, for a 
while; but a few brief hours were sufficient to prove the 
utter fallacy of the dream. Some secret conspiracy is, I am 
convinced, carrying on within these very walls. I know 
and feel this, and yet so cautious, so secret are their move- 
ments, whatever they may be, that I cannot guard against 
them. There are, as thou knowest, fewer true fighting men 
among us than any other class, and these are needed to 
man the walls and guard against the foe without ; they may 
not be spared to watch as spies their comrades — nay, I dare 
not even breathe such thoughts, lest their bold hearts should 
faint and fail, and they too demand surrender ere evil come 
upon us from within. What will be that evil I know not, 
and therefore cannot guard against it. I dare not employ 
these men upon the walls, I dare not bring them out against 
15 


220 


THE DAYS OF BEUCE. 


the foe, for so bitterly do I mistrust them, I should fear 
even then they would betray us. I only know that evil 
awaits us, and therefore, my beloved, I do beseech thee, tarry 
not till it be upon us ; depart while thy path is free.” 

“ Yet if they sought safety and peace, if they tire of this 
warfare,” she replied, disregarding his last words, “ where- 
fore not depart to-day, when egress was permitted; bethink 
thee, dearest Nigel, is not this proof thy fears are ill found- 
ed, and that no further ill hangs over us than that which 
threatens from without ? ” 

“ Alas ! no,” he said, “ it but confirms my suspicions ; I 
obtained this safe conduct expressly to nullify or confirm 
them. Had they departed as I wished, all would have been 
well; but they linger, and I can feel their plans are matur- 
ing, and therefore they will not depart. Oh, Agnes,” he 
continued, bitterly, “ my very soul is crushed beneath this 
weight of unexpressed anxiety and care. Had I but to 
contend with our English foe, but to fight a good and hon- 
orable fight, to struggle on, conscious that to the last gasp 
the brave inmates of this fortress would follow me, and Ed- 
ward would find naught on which to wreak his vengeance 
but the dead bodies of his foes, my task were easy as ’twere 
glorious; but to be conscious of secret brooding evil each 
morn that rises, each night that falls, to dread what yet I 
know not, to see, perchance, my brave fellows whelmed, 
chained, through a base treachery impossible to guard 
against — oh! Agnes, ’tis this I fear.” 

“ Yet have they not seemed more willing, more active in 
their assigned tasks since the execution of their comrade,” 
continued Agnes, with all a woman’s gentle artifice, still 
seeking to impart hope, even when she felt that none re- 
mained ; “ may it not be that, in reality, they repent them 
of former traitorous designs, and remain behind to aid thee 
to the last? Thou sayest that palpable proof of this brood- 
ing evil thou canst not find, then do not heed its voice. 
Let no fear of me, of my safety, add its pang; mine own 
Nigel, indeed I fear them not.” 

I know that all I urge will naught avail with thee, be- 
loved,” he answered, somewhat less agitated. “ I know thy 
gentle love is all too deep, too pure, too strong, to share my 
fears for thee, and oh, I bless thee, bless thee for the sweet 
solace of that faithful love ! yet, yet, I may not listen to thy 
wishes. All that thou sayest is but confirmation of the 
brooding evil; they are active, willing, but to hide their 
dark designs. Yet even were there not this evil to dread, no 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


221 


dream of treachery, still, still, I would send thee hence, 
sweet one. Famine and blood, and chains, and death — oh, 
no, no ! thou must not stay for these.” 

“ And whither wouldst thou send me, Nigel, and for 
what ? ” she asked, still calmly, though her quivering lip 
denoted that self-possession was fast failing. “ Why ? ” 

“ Whither ? to safety, freedom, peace, my best beloved ! ” 
he answered, fervently ; “ for what ? that happier, brighter 
days may beam for thee, that thou mayest live to bless and 
be a blessing; dearest, best, cling not to a withered stem, 
thou mayest be happy yet.” 

“ And wilt thou join me, if I seek this home of safety, 
Nigel?” she laid her hand on his arm, and fixed her eyes 
unflinchingly upon his face. He could not meet that 
glance, a cold shudder passed over his frame ere he could 
reply. 

“ Mine own Agnes,” and even then he paused, for his 
quivering lip could not give utterance to his thoughts, and 
a minute rolled in that deep stillness, and still those anxious 
eyes moved not from his face. At length voice returned, 
and it was sad yet deeply solemn, “ Our lives rest not in our 
own hands,” he said ; “ and who when they part may look 
to meet again? Beloved, if life be spared, canst doubt that 
I will join thee? yet, situated as I am, governor of a castle 
about to fall, a patriot, and a Bruce, brother to the noble 
spirit who wears our country’s crown, and has dared to fling 
down defiance to a tyrant, Agnes, mine own Agnes, how 
may I dream of life ? I would send thee hence ere that 
fatal moment come; I would spare thee this deep woe. I 
would bid thee live, beloved, live till years had shed sweet 
peace upon thy heart, and thou wert happy once again.” 

There was a moment’s pause ; the features of Agnes had 
become convulsed with agony as Nigel spoke, and her hands 
had closed with fearful pressure on his arm, but his last 
words, spoken in his own rich, thrilling voice, called back 
the stagnant blood. 

“No, no; I will not leave thee!” she sobbed forth, as 
from the sudden failing of strength in every limb she sank 
kneeling at his feet. “Nigel, Nigel, I will not leave thee; 
in life or in death I will abide by thee. Force me not from 
thee; seek not to tempt me by the tale of safety, freedom, 
peace; thou knowest not the depth, the might of woman’s 
love, if thou thinkest things like these can weigh aught with 
her, even if chains and death stood frowningly beside. I 
will not leave thee ; whom have I beside thee, for whom else 


222 


THE DAYS OF BKUCE. 


wouldst thou call on me to live? Alone, alone, utterly 
alone, save thee! Wilt thou bid me hence, and leave thee to 
meet thy fate alone — thee, to whom my mother gave me — 
thee, without whom my very life is naught? Nigel, oh, de- 
spise me not for these wild words, unmaidenly as they 
sound ; oh, let me speak them, or my heart will break ! ” 

“ Despise thee for these blessed words !” Nigel an- 
swered, passionately, as he raised her from the ground, and 
clasped her to his heart. “ Oh, thou know T est not the bliss 
they give; yet, yet would I speak of parting, implore thee 
still to leave me, aye, though in that parting my very heart- 
strings snap. Agnes, how may I bear to see thee in the 
power of the foe, perchance insulted, persecuted, tortured 
with the ribald admiration of the rude crowd, and feel I 
have no power to save thee, no claim to bind thee to my side. 
What are the mere chains of love in such an hour, abiding 
by me, as thou mightst, till our last hope is over, and Eng- 
lish colors wave above this fortress — then, dearest, oh, must 
we not, shall we not be rudely parted ? ” 

“ No, no ! Who shall dare to part us ? ” she said, as she 
clung sobbing to his breast. “ Who shall dare to do this 
thing, and say I may not tend thee, follow thee, even until 
death ? ” 

“ Who ? our captors, dearest. Thinkest thou they will 
heed thy tender love, thine anguish? will they have hearts 
for aught save for thy loveliness, sweet one? Think, think 
of terrors like to this, and oh, still wilt thou refuse to fly? ” 
“ But thy sister, the Lady Seaton, Nigel, doth she not 
stay, doth she not brave these perils ? ” asked Agnes, shud- 
dering at her lover’s words, yet clinging to him still. “ If 
she escapes such evil, why, oh, why may not I ? ” 

“ She is Seaton’s wife, sweet one, bound to him by the 
voice of Heaven, by the holiest of ties ; the noblest knights 
who head our foes w 7 ill protect her in all honorable keeping ; 
but for thee, Agnes, even if the ills I dread be as naught, 
there is yet one I have dared not name, lest it should pain 
thee, yet one that is most probable as ’tis most fearful ; thou 
canst not hide thy name, and as a daughter of Buchan, oh, 
will they not give thee to a father’s keeping ? ” 

“ The murderer of my brother — my mother’s jailer! Oh, 
Nigel, Nigel, to look on him were more than death ! ” she 
wildly exclaimed. “ Yet, yet once known as Agnes of Buch- 
an, this will, this must be; but leave thee now, leave thee 
to a tyrant’s doom, if indeed, indeed thou fallest in his 
hands — leave thee, when faithful love and woman’s tender- 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


223 


ness are more than ever needed — leave thee for a fear like 
this, no, no, I will not. Nigel, I will rest with thee. Speak 
not, answer not, give not one short moment, and then — oh, 
all the ills may be averted by one brief word — and I, oh, can 
I speak it ? ” She paused in fearful agitation, and every 
limb shook as if she must have fallen; the blood rushed 
up to cheek, and brow, and neck, as fixing her beautiful 
eyes on Nigel’s face, she said, in a low yet thrilling voice, 
“ Let the voice of Heaven hallow the vows we have so often 
spoken, Nigel. Give me a right, a sacred right to bear thy 
name, to be thine own, at the altar’s foot, by the holy ab- 
bot’s blessing. Let us pledge our troth, and then let what 
will come, no man can part us. I am thine, only thine ! ” 

Without waiting for a reply, she buried her face in his 
bosom, and Nigel could feel her heart throb as if ’twould 
burst its bounds, her frame quiver as if the torrent of blood, 
checked and stayed to give strength for the effort, now 
rushed back with such overwhelming force through its 
varied channels as to threaten life itself. 

“ Agnes, my own noble, self-devoted love ! oh, how may I 
answer thee ? ” he cried, tears of strong emotion coursing 
down his cheek — tears, and the warrior felt no shame. 
“ How have I been deserving of love like this — how may I 
repay it? how bless thee for such words? Mine own, mine 
own! this would indeed guard thee from the most dreaded 
ills; yet how may I link that self-devoted heart to one 
whose thread of life is well-nigh spun? how may I make 
thee mine, when a few brief weeks of misery and horror 
must part us, and on earth, forever ? ” 

“ No, no ; thou knowest not all a wife may do, my 
Nigel,” she said, as she raised her head from his bosom, and 
faintly smiled, though her frame still shook ; “ how she may 
plead even with a tyrant, and find mercy; or if this fail, 
how she may open iron gates and break through bonds, till 
freedom may be found. Oh, no, we shall not wed to part, 
beloved; but live and yet be happy, doubt it not; and then, 
oh, then forget the words that joined us, made us one, had 
birth from other lips than thine; — thou wilt forget, forgive 
this, Nigel?” 

“ Forget — forgive! that to thy pure, unselfish soul I owe 
the bliss which e’en at this hour I feel,” he answered, pas- 
sionately kissing the beautiful brow upturned to his ; “ for- 
get words that have proved — had I needed proof — how pure- 
ly, nobly, faithfully I am beloved; how utterly, how wholly 
thou hast forgotten all of self for me ! No, no ! were thy 


224 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


words proved true, might I indeed live blessed with thee 
the life allotted man, each year, each month I would recall 
this hour, and bless thee for its love. But oh, it may not 
be ! ” and his voice so suddenly lost its impassioned fervor, 
that the breast of Agnes filled with new alarm. “ Dearest, 
best! thou must not dream of life, of happiness with me. 
I may not mock thee with such blessed, but, alas! delusive 
hopes; my doom hath gone forth, revealed when I knew it 
not, confirmed by that visioned seer but few short weeks ago. 
Agnes, my noble Agnes, wherefore shouldst thou wed with 
death ? I know that I must die ! ” 

The solemn earnestness of his words chased the still 
lingering glow from the lips and cheek of the maiden, and a 
cold shiver passed through her frame, but still she clung 
to him, and said: 

“ It matters not ; my maiden love, my maiden troth is 
pledged to thee — in life or in death I am thine alone. I will 
not leave thee,” she said, firmly and calmly. “ Nigel, if it 
be indeed as thou sayest, that affliction, and — and all thou 
has spoken, must befall thee, the more need is there for the 
sustaining and the soothing comfort of a woman’s love. 
Fear not for me, weak as I may have seemed, there is yet 
a spirit in me worthy of thy love. I will not unman thee 
for all thou mayest encounter. No, even if I follow thee to 
— to death, it shall be as a Bruce’s wife. Ask not how I will 
contrive to abide by thee undiscovered, when, if it must be, 
the foe is triumphant; it will take time, and we have none 
to lose. Thou hast promised to forget all I have urged, all 
save my love for thee ; then, oh, fear me not, doubt me not, 
thine Agnes will not fail thee ! ” 

Nigel gazed at her almost with surprise; she was no 
longer the gentle timid being, who but a few minutes since 
had clung weeping to his bosom as a child. She was indeed 
very pale, and on her features was the stillness of marble; 
but she stood erect and unfaltering in her innocent loveli- 
ness, sustained by that mighty spirit which dwelt within. 
An emotion of deep reverence took possession of that war- 
rior heart, and unable to resist the impulse, he bent his knee 
before her. 

“ Then let it be so,” he said, solemnly, but oh, how fer- 
vently. “ I will not torture mine own heart and thine by 
conjuring thee to fly; and now, here, at thy feet, Agnes, 
noble, generous being, let me swear solemnly, sacredly swear, 
that should life be preserved to me longer than I now dream 
of, should I indeed be spared to lavish on thee all a husband’s 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


225 


love and care, never, never shalt thou have cause to regret 
this day! to mourn thy faithful love was shown as it hath 
been — to w T eep the hour that, in the midst of danger, and 
darkness, and woe, hath joined our earthly fates, and made 
us one. And now,” he continued, rising and folding her 
once more in his arms, “ wilt thou meet me at the altar ere 
the truce concludes? ’tis but a brief while, a very brief 
while, my love; yet if it can be, I know thou wilt not 
shrink.” 

“ I will not,” she answered. “ The hour thou namest I 
will meet thee. Lady Seaton,” she added, slightly faltering, 
and the vivid blush rose to her temples, “ I would see her, 
speak with her; yet ” 

“ She shall come to thee, mine own, prepared to love and 
hail thee sister, as she hath long done. She will not blame 
thee, dearest; she loves, hath loved too faithfully herself. 
Fear not, I will leave naught for thee to tell that can bid 
that cheek glow as it doth now. She, too, will bless thee for 
thy love.” 

He imprinted a fervent kiss on her cheek, and hastily 
left her. Agnes remained standing as he had left her for 
several minutes, her hands tightly clasped, her whole soul 
speaking in her beautiful features, and then she sank on her 
knees before a rudely-carved image of the Virgin and child, 
and prayed long and fervently. She did not weep, her 
spirit had been too painfully excited for such relief ; but so 
wrapt was she in devotion, she knew not that Lady Seaton, 
with a countenance beaming in admiration and love, stood 
beside her, till she spoke. 

“ Rouse thee, my gentle one,” she said, tenderly, as she 
twined her arm caressingly around her ; “ I may not let 
thee linger longer even here, for time passes only too quick- 
ly, and I shall have but little time to attire my beautiful 
bride for the altar. Nigel hath been telling such a tale of 
woman’s love, that my good lord hath vowed, despite his 
weakness and his wounds, none else shall lead thee to the 
altar, and give thee to my brother, save himself. I knew 
that not even Nigel’s influence would bid thee leave us, 
dearest,” she continued, as Agnes hid her face in her bosom, 
“ but I dreamed not such a spirit dwelt within this childlike 
heart, sweet one; thy lot must surely be for joy! ” 


226 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


CHAPTER XX. 

It was somewhat past the hour of nine, when Agnes, 
leaning on the arm of Sir Christopher Seaton, and followed 
by Lady Seaton and two young girls, their attendants, en- 
tered the church, and walked, with an unfaltering step and 
firm though modest mien, up to the altar, beside which 
Nigel already stood. She was robed entirely in white, with- 
out the smallest ornament save the emerald clasp which se- 
cured, and the beautiful pearl embroidery which adorned 
her girdle. Her mantle was of white silk, its little hood 
thrown back, disclosing a rich lining of the white fox fur. 
Lady Seaton had simply arranged her hair in its own beauti- 
ful curls, and not a flower or gem peeped through them; a 
silver bodkin secured the veil, which was just sufficiently 
transparent to permit her betrothed to look upon her fea- 
tures, and feel that, pale and still as they were, they evinced 
no change in her generous purpose. He, too, was pale, for 
he felt those rites yet more impressively holy than he had 
deemed them, even when his dreams had pictured them 
peculiarly and solemnly holy; for he looked not to a con- 
tinuance of life and happiness, he felt not that ceremony 
set its seal upon joy, and bound it, as far as mortality might 
hope, forever on their hearts. He was conscious only of 
the deep unutterable fulness of that gentle being’s love, of 
the bright, beautiful lustre with which it shone upon his 
path. The emotion of his young and ardent breast was 
perhaps almost too holy, too condensed, to be termed joy; 
but it was one so powerful, so blessed, that all of earth and 
earthly care was lost before it. The fears and doubts which 
he had so lately felt, for the time completely faded from his 
memory. That there were foes without and yet darker foes 
within he might have known perhaps, but at that moment 
they did not occupy a fleeting thought. He had changed 
his dress for one of richness suited to his rank, and though 
at the advice of his friends he still retained the breastplate 
and some other parts of his armor, his doublet of azure vel- 
vet, cut and slashed with white satin, and his long, flowing 
mantle lined with sable, and so richly decorated with silver 
stars that its color could scarcely be distinguished, removed 
all appearance of a martial costume, and well became the 
graceful figure they adorned ; two of the oldest knights and 
four other officers, all gayly attired as the hurry of the mo- 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


227 


ment would permit, had at his own request attended him 
to the altar. 

Much surprise this sudden intention had indeed caused, 
but it was an excitement, a change from the dull routine of 
the siege, and consequently welcomed with joy, many in- 
deed believing Sir Nigel had requested the truce for the 
purpose. Sir Christopher, too, though pale and gaunt, and 
compelled to use the support of a cane in walking, was ob- 
served to look upon his youthful charge with all his former 
hilarity of mien, chastened by a kindly tenderness, which 
seemed indeed that of the father whom he personated; and 
Lady Seaton had donned a richer garb than was her wont, 
and stood encouragingly beside the bride. About twenty 
men-at-arms, their armor and weapons hastily burnished, 
that no unseemly soil should mar the peaceful nature of 
the ceremony by recalling thoughts of war, were ranged on 
either side. The church was lighted, dimly in the nave 
and aisles, but softly and somewhat with a holy radiance 
where the youthful couple knelt, from the large waxen 
tapers burning in their silver stands upon the altar. 

The Abbot of Scone was at his post, attended by the do- 
mestic chaplain of Kildrummie; there was a strange mix- 
ture of admiration and anxiety on the old man’s face, but 
Agnes saw it not; she saw nothing save him at whose side 
she knelt. 

Nigel, even in the agitation of mind in which he had 
quitted Agnes — an agitation scarcely conquered in hastily 
informing his sister and her husband of all that had passed 
between them, and imploring their countenance and aid — 
yet made it his first care strictly to make the round of the 
walls, to notice all that might be passing within the courts, 
and see that the men-at-arms were at their posts. In con- 
sequence of the truce, for the conclusion of which it still 
wanted some little time, there were fewer men on the walls 
than usual, their commanders having desired them to take 
advantage of this brief cessation of hostilities and seek 
refreshment and rest. A trumpet was to sound at the hour 
of ten, half an hour before the truce concluded, to summon 
them again to their posts. The men most acute in penetra- 
tion, most firm and steady in purpose, Nigel selected as 
sentries along the walls; the post of each being one of the 
round towers we have mentioned, the remaining spaces were 
consequently clear. Night had already fallen, and anx- 
iously observing the movements on the walls ; endeavoring 
to discover whether the various little groups of men and 


228 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


women in the ballium meant anything more than usual, Sir 
Nigel did not notice various piles or stacks of straw and 
wood which were raised against the wall in many parts 
where the shadows lay darkest, and some also against the 
other granaries which were contained in low wooden build- 
ings projecting from the wall. Neither he nor his friends, 
nor even the men-at-arms, noticed them, or if they did, im- 
agined them in the darkness to be but the stones and other 
weights generally collected there, and used to supply the 
engines on the walls. 

With the exception of the sentries and the men employed 
by Nigel, all the garrison had assembled in the hall of the 
keep for their evening meal, the recollection of whose fru- 
gality they determined to banish by the jest and song; there 
were in consequence none about the courts, and therefore 
that dark forms were continually hovering about beneath 
the deep shadows of the walls, increasing the size of the 
stacks, remained wholly undiscovered. 

Agnes had entered the church by a covered passage, 
which united the keep to its inner wall, and thence by a 
gallery through the wall itself, dimly lighted by loopholes, 
to the edifice, whose southern side was formed by this same 
wall. It was therefore, though in reality situated within 
the ballium or outer court, nearer by many hundred yards 
to the dwelling of the baron than to the castle walls, its 
granaries, towers, etc. This outward ballium indeed was a 
very large space, giving the appearance of a closely-built 
village or town, from the number of low wooden and 
thatched-roofed dwellings, which on either side of the large 
open space before the great gate were congregated together. 
This account may, we fear at such a moment, seem some- 
what out of place, but events in the sequel compel us to be 
thus particular. A space about half a mile square sur- 
rounded the church, and this position, when visited by Sir 
Nigel at nine o’clock, was quiet and deserted; indeed there 
was very much less confusion and other evidences of dis- 
quiet within the dwellings than was now usual, and this 
circumstance perhaps heightened the calm which, as we 
have said, had settled on Sir Nigel’s mind. 

There was silence within that little sacred edifice, the 
silence of emotion ; for not one could gaze upon that young 
fair girl, could think of that devoted spirit, which at such a 
time preferred to unite her fate with a beloved one than 
seek safety and freedom in flight, without being conscious 
of a strange swelling of the heart and unwonted moisture 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


229 


in the eye; and there was that in the expression of the 
beautiful features of Nigel Bruce none could remark un- 
moved. He was so young, so gifted, so strangely uniting 
the gift of the sage, the poet, with the glorious achieve- 
ments of the most perfect knight, that he had bound him- 
self alike to every heart, however varied their dispositions, 
however opposite their tastes; and their was not one, from 
the holy Abbot of Scone to the lowest and rudest of the 
men-at-arms, who would not willingly, aye, joyfully have 
laid down life for his, have gladly accepted chains to give 
him freedom. 

The deep, sonorous voice of the abbot audibly faltered as 
he commenced the sacred service, and looked on the fair 
beings kneeling, in the beauty and freshness of their youth, 
before him. Accustomed, however, to control every human 
emotion, he speedily recovered himself, and uninterruptedly 
the ceremony continued. Modestly, yet with a voice that 
never faltered, Agnes made the required responses; and so 
deep was the stillness that reigned around not a word was 
lost, but, sweetly and clearly, as a silver clarion, it sank on 
every ear and thrilled to every heart; to his who knelt be- 
side her, as if each tone revealed yet more the devoted love 
which led her there. Toward the conclusion of the service, 
and just as every one within the church knelt in general 
prayer, a faint, yet suffocating odor, borne on what appeared 
a light mist, was distinguished, and occasioned some slight 
surprise ; by the group around the altar, however, it was un- 
noticed; and the men-at-arms, on looking toward the nar- 
row windows and perceiving nothing but the intense dark- 
ness of the night, hushed the rising exclamation, and con- 
tinued in devotion. Two of the knights, too, were observed 
to glance somewhat uneasily around, still nothing was per- 
ceivable but the light wreaths of vapor penetrating through 
the northern aisle, and dissolving ere long the arches of the 
roof. Almost unconsciously they listened, and became 
aware of some sounds in the distance, but so faint and in- 
definable as to permit them to rest in the belief that it must 
be the men-at-arms hurrying from the keep to the walls, al- 
though they were certain the trumpet had not yet sounded. 
Determined not to heed such vague sounds, they looked 
again to the altar. The abbot had laid a trembling hand on 
either low-bent head, and was emphatically pronouncing his 
blessing on their vows, calling on Heaven in its mercy to 
bless and keep them, and spare them to each other for a long 
and happy life ; or if it must be that a union commenced in 


230 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


danger should end in sorrow, to keep them still, and fit them 
for a union in eternity. His words were few but earnest, 
and for the first time the lip of Agnes was observed to quiver 
— they were one. Agnes was clasped to the heart of her 
husband; she heard him call her his own — his wife — that 
man should never part them more. The voice of congratu- 
lation woke around her, but ere either could gaze around to 
look their thanks, or clasp the eagerly proffered hand, a cry 
of alarm, of horror, ran through the building. A red, lurid 
light, impossible to be mistaken, illumined every window, 
as from a fearful conflagration without; darkness had fled 
before it. On all sides it was light — light the most horrible, 
the most awful, though perchance the most fascinating the 
eye can behold; fearful shouts and cries, and the rush of 
many feet, mingled with the now easily distinguished roar 
of the devouring element, burst confusedly on the ear. A 
minute sufficed to fling open the door of the church for 
knights and men-at-arms to rush forth in one indiscrimi- 
nate mass. Sir Christopher would have followed them, ut- 
terly regardless of his inability, had not his wife clung to 
him imploringly, and effectually restrained him. The ab- 
bot, grasping the silver crosier by his side, with a swift, yet 
still majestic stride, made his way through the church, and 
vanished by the widely opened door. Agnes and Sir Nigel 
stood comparatively alone ; not a cry, not a word passed her 
lips, every feature was wrapped in one absorbing look upon 
her husband. He had clasped his hands convulsively to- 
gether, his brow was knit, his lip compressed, his eye fixed 
and rigid, though it gazed on vacancy. 

“It hath fallen, it hath fallen!” he muttered. “Fool, 
fool that I was never to dream of this! Friends, followers, 
all I hold most dear, swallowed up in this fell swoop ! God 
of mercy, how may it be borne ! And thou, thou,” he added, 
in increased agony, roused from that stupor by the wild 
shouts of “ Sir Nigel, Sir Nigel! where is he? why does he 
tarry in such an hour ? ” that rung shrilly on the air. 
“ Agnes, mine own, it is not too late even now to fly. Ha ! 
son of Dermid, in good time thou art here; save her, in 
mercy save her ! I know not when, or how, or where we may 
meet again; I may not tarry here.” He clasped her in his 
arms, imprinted an impassioned kiss on her now death-like 
cheek, placed her at once in the arms of the seer (who, robed 
as a minstrel, had stood concealed behind a projecting pillar 
during the ceremony, and now approached), and darted 
wildly from the church. What a scene met his gaze! All 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


231 


the buildings within the ballium, with the sole exception of 
the church, were in one vivid blaze of fire; the old dry 
wood and thatch of which they were composed, kindling 
with a mere spark. The wind blew the flames in the direc- 
tion of the principal wall, which was already ignited from 
the heaps of combustibles that had been raised within for 
the purpose; although it was likely that, from its extreme 
thickness and strength, the fire had there done but partial 
evil, had not the conflagration within the court spread faster 
and nearer every moment, and from the blazing rafters and 
large masses of thatch caught by the wind and hurled on 
the very wall, done greater and more irreparable mischief 
than the combustibles themselves. Up, up, seeming to the 
very heavens, the lurid flames ascended, blazing and roaring, 
and lighting the whole scene as with the glare of day. Fan- 
tastic wreaths of red fire danced in the air against the pitchy 
blackness of the heavens, rising and falling in such grace- 
ful, yet terrible shapes, that the very eye felt riveted in ad- 
miration, while the heart quailed with horror. Backward 
and forward gleamed the forms of men in the dusky glare; 
and oaths and cries, and the clang of swords, and the shrieks 
of women, terrified by the destruction they had not a little 
assisted to ignite — the sudden rush of horses bursting from 
their stables, and flying here and there, scared by the un- 
usual sight and horrid sounds — the hissing streams of water 
which, thrown from huge buckets on the flames, seemed but 
to excite them to greater fury instead of lessening their de- 
vouring way — the crackling of straw and wood, as of the 
roar of a hundred furnaces — these were the varied sounds 
and sights that burst upon the eye and ear of Nigel, as, 
richly attired as he was, his drawn sword in his hand, his 
fair hair thrown back from his uncovered brow and head, he 
stood in the very centre of the scene. One glance sufficed 
to perceive that the rage of the men-at-arms was turned on 
their treacherous countrymen; that the work of war raged 
even then — the swords of Scotsmen were raised against each 
other. Even women fell in that fierce slaughter, for the 
demon of revenge was at work, and sought but blood. In 
vain the holy abbot, heedless that one sudden gust and his 
flowing garments must inevitably catch fire, uplifted his 
crosier, and called on them to forbear. In vain the officers 
rushed amid the infuriated men, bidding them keep their 
weapons and their lives for the foe, who in such a moment 
would assuredly be upon them; in vain they commanded, 
exhorted, implored; but on a sudden, the voice of Sir Nigel 


232 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


Bruce was heard above the tumult, loud, stern, commanding. 
His form was seen hurrying from group to group, turning 
back with his own sword the weapons of his men, giving life 
even to those who had wrought this woe; and there was a 
sudden hush, a sudden pause. 

“Peace, peace!” he cried. “Would ye all share the 
madness of these men? They have hurled down destruc- 
tion, let them reap it; let them live to thrive and fatten in 
their chains; let them feel the yoke they pine for. For us, 
my friends and fellow-soldiers, let us not meet our glorious 
fate with the blood of Scotsmen on our swords. We have 
striven for our country; we have striven gloriously, faith- 
fully, and now we have but to die for her. Ha ! do I speak 
in vain? Again — back, coward! wouldst thou slay a wom- 
an ? ” and, with a sudden bound, he stood beside one of the 
soldiers, who was in the act of plunging his dagger in the 
breast of a kneeling and struggling female. One moment 
sufficed to wrench the dagger from his grasp, and release 
the woman from his hold. 

“ It is ill done, your lordship ; it is the fiend, the arch- 
fiend that has planned it all,” loudly exclaimed the man. 
“ She has been heard to mutter threats of vengeance, and 
blood and fire against thee, and all belonging to thee. Let 
her not go free, my lord ; thou mayest repent it still.” 

“ Bepent giving a woman life ? — bah ! Thou art a fool, 
though a faithful one,” answered Sir Nigel; but even he 
started as he recognized the features of Jean Boy. She 
gave him no time to restrain her, however ; for, sliding from 
his hold, she bounded several paces from him, singing, as she 
did so, “ Bepent, ye shall repent ! Where is thy buxom 
bride? Jean Boy will see to her safety. A bonny court- 
ship ye shall have! ” Tossing up her arms wildly, she van- 
ished as she spoke ; seeming in that light in very truth more 
like a fiend than woman. A chill sunk on the heart of Nigel, 
but, “ No, no,” he said, internally, as again he sought the 
spot where confusion and horror waxed thickest ; “ Dermid 
will care for Agnes, and guard her. I will not think of 
that mad woman’s words.” Yet even as he rushed onward, 
giving directions, commands, lending his aid to every effort 
made for extinguishing the fire, a prayer for his wife was 
uttered in his heart. 

The fire continued its rapid progress ; buttress after but- 
tress, tower after tower caught on the walls, causing the 
conflagration to continue, even when, by the most strenuous 
efforts, it had been partially extinguished among the dwell- 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


233 


ings of the court. The wind blowing from the north fortu- 
nately preserved the keep, inner wall, and even the church, 
uninjured, save that the scorched and blackened sides of the 
latter gave evidence of the close vicinity of the flames, and 
how narrowly it had escaped. With saddened hearts, the 
noble defenders of Scotland’s last remaining bulwark, be- 
held their impregnable wall, the scene of such dauntless 
valor, such unconquered struggles, against which the whole 
force of their mighty foes had been of no avail — that wall 
crumbling into dust and ashes in their very sight, opening a 
broad passage to the English foe. Yet still there was no 
evidence that to yield were preferable than to die; still, 
though well-nigh exhausted with their herculean efforts to 
quench the flames, there was no cessation, no pause, al- 
though the very height of the wall prevented success, for 
they had not the facilities afforded by the engines of the 
present day. Sir Nigel, his knights, nay, the venerable ab- 
bot himself, seconded every effort of the men. It seemed as 
if little more could add to the horror of the scene, and yet 
the shouts of “ The granaries, the granaries — merciful 
Heaven, all is consumed ! ” came with such appalling con- 
sciousness on every ear, that for a brief while, the stoutest 
arm hung powerless, the firmest spirit quailed. Famine 
stood suddenly before them as a gaunt, terrific spectre, 
whose cold hand it seemed had grasped their very hearts. 
Nobles and men, knights and soldiers, alike stood paralyzed, 
gazing at each other with a blank, dim, unutterable despair. 
The shrill blast of many trumpets, the roll of heavy drums, 
broke that deep stillness. “ The foe ! the foe ! ” was echoed 
round, fiercely, yet rejoicingly. “ They are upon us — they 
brave the flames — well done! Now firm and steady; to 
your arms — stand close. Sound trumpets — the defiance, the 
Bruce and Scotland ! ” and sharply and clearly, as if but 
just arrayed for battle, as if naught had chanced to bend 
those gallant spirits to the earth, the Scottish clarions sent 
back their answering blast, and the men gathered in com- 
pact array around their gallant leader. 

“ My horse — my horse ! ” shouted Nigel Bruce, as he 
sprang from rank to rank of the little phalanx, urging, com- 
manding, entreating them to make one last stand, and fall 
as befitted Scottish patriots. The keep and inner ballium 
was still their own as a place of retreat, however short a 
period it might remain so. A brave defence, a glorious 
death would still do much for Scotland. 

Shouts, cheers, blessings on his name awoke in answer. 


234 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


as unfalteringly, as bravely as those of the advancing foes. 
Prancing, neighing, rearing, the superb charger was at 
length brought to the dauntless leader. 

“Not thus, my lord; in Heaven’s name, do not mount 
thus, unarmed, bareheaded as thou art ! ” exclaimed several 
voices, and two or three of his esquires crowded round him. 
“ Retire but for a brief space within the church.” 

“ And turn my back upon my foes, Hubert ; not for 
worlds! No, no; bring me the greaves, gauntlets, and hel- 
met here, if thou wilt, and an they give me time, I will arm 
me in their very teeth. Haste ye, my friends, if ye will have 
it so ; for myself these garments will serve me well enough ; ” 
but ere he ceased to speak they had flown to obey, and re- 
turned ere a dozen more of the English had made their way 
across the crumbling wall. Coolly, composedly, Nigel 
threw aside his mantle and doublet, and permitted his es- 
quires to assist in arming him, speaking at the same time 
in a tone so utterly unconcerned, that ere their task was 
finished, his coolness had extended unto them. He had 
allowed some few of the English to make an unmolested way ; 
his own men were drawn up in close lines against the inner 
wall, so deep in shadow that they were at first unobserved 
by the English. He could perceive by the still, clear light 
of the flames, troop after troop of the besiegers were march- 
ing forward in the direction both of the causeway and the 
river; several were plunging in the moat, sword in hand, 
and attack threatened on every side. He waited no longer; 
springing on his charger, with a movement so sudden and 
unexpected, the helmet fell from his esquire’s hand, and 
waving his sword above his undefended head, he shouted 
aloud his war-cry, and dashed on, followed by his men, to 
the spot where a large body of his foes already stood. 

Desperately they struggled, most gallantly they fought; 
man after man of the English fell before them. On, on 
they struggled; a path seemed cleared before them; the 
English were bearing back, despite their continued rein- 
forcements from the troops, that so thronged the causeway 
it appeared but one mass of men. But other shouts rent the 
air. The besiegers now poured in on every side; wherever 
that gallant body turned they were met by English. On, on 
they came, fresh from some hours of repose, buoyed up by 
the certainty of conquest; unnumbered swords and spears, 
and coats of mail, gleaming in that lurid light ; on came the 
fiery steeds, urged by the spur and rein, till through the very 
flames they bore their masters; on through the waters of 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


235 


the moat, up the scorching ruins, and with a sound as of 
thunder, clearing with a single bound all obstacles into the 
very court. It w T as a fearful sight ; that little patriot band, 
hemmed in on every side, yet struggling to the last, clearing 
a free passage through men and horse, and glancing swords 
and closing multitudes, nearing the church, slowly, yet 
surely, forming in yet closer order as they advanced; there, 
there they stood, as a single bark amid the troubled waves, 
cleaving them asunder, but to close again in fatal fury on 
her track. 

In vain, amid that furious strife, did the Earl of Lan- 
caster seek out the azure plume and golden helmet that 
marked the foe he still desired to meet; there was indeed a 
face, beautiful and glorious even in that moment, ever in 
the very thickest of the fight, alike the front, the centre, the 
rear-guard of his men; there was indeed that stately form, 
sitting his noble charger as if horse and man were one ; and 
that unhelmed brow, that beautifully formed head, with its 
long curls streaming in the night wind, which towered un- 
harmed, unbent, above his foes ; and where that was, the last 
hope of his country had gathered. The open door of the 
church was gained, and there the Scottish patriots made a 
stand, defended in the rear by the building. A brief and 
desperate struggle partially cleared their foes, and ere those 
in the rear could press forward, the besieged had disap- 
peared, and the heavy doors were closed. The sudden pause 
of astonishment amid the assailants was speedily dispelled 
by the heavy blows of axes and hatchets, the sudden shout 
“ To the wall ! to the wall ! ” while several ran to plant 
scaling-ladders and mount the inner barrier, left unhappily 
unguarded from the diminished numbers of the Scotch; 
there, however, their progress was impeded, for the space 
which that wall inclosed being scarce half the size of the 
ballium, and the barrier itself uninjured, they were repulsed 
with loss from within. The church-doors meanwhile had 
given way, and permitted ingress to the assailants, but the 
door leading to the passage through the inner wall, and by 
which in reality the Scotch had effected their retreat, was 
carefully closed and barred within, and had so completely 
the same appearance as the wall of the church in which it 
stood, that the English gazed round them fairly puzzled and 
amazed. 

This movement, however, on the part of the besieged oc- 
casioned a brief cessation of hostilities on both sides. The 
flames had subsided, except here and there, where the pass- 

16 


236 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


in g wind fanned the red-hot embers anew into life, and 
caused a flickering radiance to pass athwart the pitchy 
darkness of the night, and over the bustling scene on either 
side the ruins. 

There was no moon, and Hereford imagined the hours 
of darkness might be better employed in active measures for 
resuming the attack by dawn than continuing it then. 
Much, very much had been gained: a very brief struggle 
more he knew must now decide it, and he hoped, though 
against his better judgment, that the garrison would sur- 
render without further loss of blood. Terms he could not 
propose ; none at least that could prevail on the brave com- 
manders to give up with life, and so great was the admira- 
tion Nigel’s conduct had occasioned, that this true son of 
chivalry ardently wished he would eventually fall in com- 
bat rather than be consigned to the fearful fate which he 
knew would be inflicted on him by the commands of Ed- 
ward. Commands to the troops without were forwarded by 
trusty esquires; the wounded conveyed to the camp, and 
their places supplied by fresh forces, who, with the joyous 
sound of trumpet and drum, marched over by torchlight 
into the ballium, so long the coveted object of their attack. 

Sir Nigel meanwhile had desired his exhausted men to 
lie down in their arms, ready to start up at the faintest ap- 
pearance of renewed hostility, and utterly worn out, they 
most willingly obeyed. But the young knight himself 
neither shared nor sought for that repose; he stood against 
a buttress on the walls, leaning on a tall spear, and gazing at 
once upon his wearied followers, and keeping a strict watch 
on the movements of his foes. A tall form, clothed in com- 
plete armor, suddenly stood beside him ; he started. 

“ Seaton ! ” he said ; “ thou here, and in armor ? ” 

“ Aye,” answered the knight, his voice from very weak- 
ness, sounding hollow in his helmet. “ Aye, to make one 
last stand, and, if it may be, die as I have lived for Scot- 
land. I have strength to strike one last blow, for last it will 
be — all is lost ! ” 

A low groan broke from Nigel’s lips, but he made no 
further answer than the utterance of one word — “ Agnes! ” 

“ Is safe, I trust,” rejoined the knight. “The son of 
Dermid, in whose arms I last saw her, knoweth many a 
secret path and hidden passage, and can make his way 
wherever his will may lead.” 

“ How ! thinkest thou he will preserve her, save her even 
now from the foe ? ” 


THE DAYS OF BIIUCE. 


237 


“ Aye, perchance conceal her till the castle be dismantled. 
But what do they now? See, a herald and white flag,” he 
added, abruptly, as by the light of several torches a trum- 
peter, banner-bearer, herald, and five men-at-arms were dis- 
cerned approaching the walls. 

“ What would ye? Halt, and answer,” demanded Sir 
Nigel, recalled on the instant to his sterner duties, and ad- 
vancing, spear in hand, to the utmost verge of the wall. 

“ We demand speech of Sir Nigel Bruce and Sir Chris- 
topher Seaton, governors of this castle,” was the brief reply. 

“ Speak on, then, we are before ye, ready to list your say. 
What would your lords ? ” 

“ Give ye not admittance within the wall ? ” inquired the 
herald ; “ ’tis somewhat strange parleying without.” 

“No!” answered Nigel, briefly and sternly; “ speak on, 
and quickly. We doubt not the honor of the noble Earl of 
Hereford — it hath been too gloriously proved; but we are 
here to list your mission. What would ye ? ” 

“ That ye surrender this fortress by to-morrow’s dawn, 
and strive no longer with the destiny against you. Ye have 
neither men nor stores, and in all good and chivalric feeling, 
the noble Earls of Hereford and Lancaster call on ye to 
surrender without further loss of blood.” 

“ And if we do this? ” demanded Nigel. 

“ They promise all honorable treatment and lenient cap- 
tivity to the leaders of the rebels, until the pleasure of his 
grace the king be known ; protection to all females ; liberty 
to those whose rank demands not their detention; and for 
the common soldiers, on the delivery of their arms and up- 
per garments, and their taking a solemn oath that within 
seven days they will leave Scotland never to return, liberty 
and life shall be mercifully extended unto one and all.” 

“ And if we do not this? ” 

“ Your blood be upon your own rebellious heads! Sack- 
ing and pillage must take their course.” 

“ Ye have heard,” were the sole words that passed the lips 
of Nigel, turning to his men, who, roused by the first sound 
of the trumpet, had started from their slumbers, and falling 
in a semicircle round him and Sir Christopher, listened 
with intense eagerness to the herald’s words. “ Ye have 
heard. Speak, then — your answer; yours shall be ours.” 

“ Death ! death ! death ! ” was the universally reiterated 
shout. “ We will struggle to the death. Our king and 
country shall not say we deserted them because we feared to 
die; or surrendered on terms of shame as these! No; let 


238 . 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


the foe come on! we will die, if we may not live, still pa- 
triots of Scotland! King Robert will avenge us! God 
save the Bruce ! ” 

Again, and yet again they bade God bless him; and 
startlingly and thrillingly was the united voice of that des- 
perate, devoted band borne on the wings of night to the 
very furthest tents of their foes. Calmly Sir Nigel turned 
again to the herald. 

“ Thou hast Scotland’s answer,” he said ; “ ’tis in such 
men as these her glorious spirit lives ! they will fall not un- 
avenged. Commend us to your masters; we await them 
with the dawn,” and, turning on his heel, he reassumed the 
posture of thought as if he had never been aroused. 

The dawn uprose, the attack was renewed with increased 
vigor, and defended with the same calm, determined spirit 
which had been ever shown; the patriots fell where they 
fought, leaving fearful traces of their desperate courage in 
the numbers of English that surrounded each. It was now 
before the principal entrance to the keep they made their 
final stand, and horrible was the loss of life, fierce and dead- 
ly the strife, ere that entrance was forced, and the shrieks 
of women and children within proclaimed the triumph of 
the foe. Then came a shout, loud ringing, joyous, echoed 
and re-echoed by the blast of the trumpets both within and 
without, and the proud banner of Scotland was hurled con- 
temptuously to the earth, and the flag of England floated in 
its place. Many a dying eye, unclosed by those sudden 
sounds, looked on that emblem of defeat and moved not in 
life again; others sprung up to their feet with wild shrieks 
of defiance, and fell back, powerless, in death. 

Sir Christopher Seaton, whose exhausted frame could 
barely sustain the weight of his armor, had been taken in 
the first charge, fighting bravely, but falling from exhaus- 
tion to the earth. And where was Nigel? — hemmed in on 
all sides, yet seemingly unwounded, unconquered still, his 
face indeed was deadly pale, and there were moments when 
his strokes flagged as from an utter failing of strength; but 
if, on observing this, his foes pressed closer, strength ap- 
peared to return, and still, still he struggled on. He sought 
for death; he felt that he dared his destiny, but death 
shunned him; he strove with his destiny in vain. Not thus 
might he fall, the young, the generous, the gifted. On foot, 
his armor hacked and stained with blood, not yet had the 
word “ yield ” been shouted in his ear. 

“ Back, back ! leave me this glorious prize ! ” shouted 


THE HAYS OF BRUCE. 


239 


Lancaster, spurring on his charger through the crowd, and 
leaping from him the instant he neared the spot where 
Nigel stood. “ Take heed of my gallant horse, I need him 
not — I shall not heed him now. Ha! bareheaded too; well, 
so shall it be with me — hand to hand, foot to foot. Turn, 
noble Nigel, we are well-nigh equals now, and none shall 
come between us.” He hastily unclasped his helmet, threw 
it from his brow, and stood in the attitude of defence. 

One moment Sir Nigel paused; his closing foes had 
fallen from him at the words of their leader; he hesitated 
one brief instant as to whether indeed he should struggle 
more, or deliver up his sword to the generous earl, when the 
shout of triumph from the topmost turret, proclaiming the 
raising of the banner, fell upon his ear, and nerved him to 
the onset. 

“ Noble and generous!” he exclaimed, as their swords 
crossed. “ Might I choose my fate, I would fall by thy 
knightly sword.” 

As stupefied with wonder at the skill, the extraordinary 
velocity and power of the combatants, the men-at-arms stood 
round, without making one movement to leave the spot; 
and fearful indeed was that deadly strife ; equal they seemed 
in stature, in the use of their weapons, in every mystery of 
the sword; the eye ached with the rapid flashing of the 
blades, the ear tired of the sharp, unwavering clash, but still 
they quailed not, moved not from the spot where the combat 
had commenced. 

How long this fearful struggle would have continued, or 
who would finally be victor, was undecided still, when sud- 
denly the wild mocking laugh of madness sounded in the 
very ear of Nigel, and a voice shouted aloud, “ Fight on, my 
bonny lord; see, see, how I care for your winsome bride,” 
and the maniac form of Jean Roy rushed by through the 
thickest ranks of the men, swift, swift as the lightning track. 
A veil of silver tissue floated from her shoulder, and she 
seemed to be bearing something in her arms, but what, the 
rapidity of her way, precluded all discovery. The fierce sol- 
diers shrunk away from her, as if appalled by her gaunt, 
spectral look, or too much scared by her sudden appearance 
to attempt detaining her. The eye of Nigel involuntarily 
turned from his foe to follow her; he recognized the veil, 
and fancy did the rest. He saw her near a part of the wall 
which was tottering beneath the engines of the English; 
there was a wild shriek in other tones than hers, the wall 
fell, burying the maniac in its ruins. A mist came over the 


240 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


senses of the young knight, strength suddenly fled his arm, 
he stepped back as to recover himself, but slipped and fell, 
the violence of the fall dashing his sword many yards in 
air. “ I yield me true prisoner, rescue or no rescue,” he 
said, in a tone so startling in its agony that the rudest heart 
beside him shrunk within itself appalled, and for a minute 
Lancaster checked the words upon his lips. 

“ Nay, nay, yield not in such tone, my gallant foe! ” he 
said, with eager courtesy, and with his own hand aiding 
him to rise. “ Would that I were the majesty of England, I 
should deem myself debased did I hold such gallantry in du- 
rance. Of a truth, thou hast robbed me of my conquest, 
fair sir, for it was no skill of mine which brought thee to 
the ground. I may thank that shrieking mad woman, per- 
chance, for the preservation of my laurels.” 

“ I give you thanks for your courtesy, my lord,” replied 
Sir Nigel, striving to recover himself; “ but I pray you 
pardon me, if I beseech you let that falling mass be cleared 
at once, and note if that unhappy woman breathes. Me- 
thought,” he added, in stronger agitation, “ she carried 
something in her arms.” 

“ She did,” answered many voices ; “ some child or girl, 
who was struggling, though the head was muffled up as if 
to prevent all sounds.” 

“ See to it, and bring us news of what you find,” said 
Lancaster, hastily, for the same ghastly expression passed 
over the countenance of his prisoner as had startled him at 
first. “ Thou art not well, my good lord ? ” he continued 
kindly. 

“ Nay, I am well, my lord; but I will go with you,” re- 
plied the young knight, slowly, as if collecting strength ere 
he could speak. “ I am wearied with the turmoil of the last 
twelve hours’ fighting against fire and sword at once; I 
would fain see the noble Hereford, and with his permission 
rest me a brief while.” 

Lancaster made no further comment, and the two 
knights, who but a few minutes before had been engaged in 
deadly strife, now made their way together through the 
heaps of the dying and the dead, through many a group of 
rude soldiery, who scowled on Nigel with no friendly eye, 
for they only recognized him as the destroyer of hundreds 
of their countrymen, not the chivalric champion who had 
won the enthusiastic admiration of their leaders, and soon 
found themselves in the castle-hall, in the presence of the 
Earl of Hereford, who was surrounded by his noblest offi- 


THE DxYYS OF BRUCE. 


241 


cers, Sir Christopher and Lady Seaton, and some few other 
Scottish prisoners, most of whom were badly wounded. 
He advanced to meet Sir Nigel, courteously, though 
gravely. 

“ It grieves me,” he said, “ to receive as a prisoner a 
knight of such high renown and such chivalric bearing as 
Sir Nigel Bruce; I would he had kept those rare qualities 
for the sovereign to whom they were naturally due, and 
who would have known how to have appreciated and honor 
them, rather than shed such lustre on so weak a cause.” 

“ Does your lordship regard the freedom of an oppressed 
country so weak a cause?” replied Nigel, the hot blood 
mounting to his cheek ; “ the rising in defence of a right- 
ful king, in lieu of slavishly adhering to one, who, though 
so powerful, all good men, aye, even all good Englishmen, 
must look on, in his claims to Scotland, as an ambitious 
usurper. My lord, my lord, the spirit of Hereford spoke 
not in those words ; but I forgive them, for I have much for 
which to proffer thanks unto the noble Hereford, much, 
that his knightly soul scorned treachery and gave us a fair 
field. Durance is but a melancholy prospect, yet an it must 
be I would not nobler captors.” 

“Nor would I forfeit the esteem in which. you hold me, 
gallant sir,” replied the earl, “ and therefore do I pray you, 
command my services in aught that can pleasure you, and 
an it interfere not with my duty to my sovereign, I shall be 
proud to give them. Speak, I pray you.” 

“ Nay, I can ask naught which the Earl of Hereford 
hath not granted of himself,” said Sir Nigel. “ I would be- 
seech you to extend protection to all the females of this un- 
happy castle; to part not my sister from her lord, for, as 
you see, his wounds and weakness call for woman’s care ; to 
grant the leech’s aid to those who need it; and if there 
be some unhappy men of my faithful troop remaining, I 
would beseech you show mercy unto them, and let them go 
free — they can work no further ill to Edward; they can 
fight no more for Scotland, for she lieth chained ; they have 
no head and therefore no means of resistance — I beseech 
you give them freedom unshackled by conditions.” 

“ It shall be, it shall be,” replied Hereford, hastily, and 
evidently moved ; “ but for thyself, young sir, thyself, can 
we do naught for thee ? ” 

“ Nothing,” answered the young man, calmly. “ I need 
little more on earth, for neither my youth, my birth, nor 
what it pleaseth thee to term my gallantry, will save me 


242 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


from the sweeping axe of Edward. I would beseech thee to 
let my death atone for all, and redeem my noble friends; 
but I ask it not, for I know in this thou hast no power ; and 
yet, though I ask nothing now,” he added, after a brief 
pause, and in a lower voice, as to be heard only by Here- 
ford, “ ere we march to England I may have a boon to 
crave — protection, liberty for a beloved one, whose fate as 
yet I know not.” He spoke almost inarticulately, for again 
it seemed the horrid words and maniac laugh of Jean Roy 
resounded in his ears. There was that in the look and man- 
ner of the English earl inviting confidence: a moment the 
tortured young man longed to pour all into his ear, to con- 
jure him to find Agnes, and give her to his arms; the next 
he refrained, for her words, “ Ask not how I will contrive to 
abide by thee undiscovered by the foe,” suddenly flashed on 
his memory, with the conviction that if she were indeed 
still in life, and he acknowledged her his wife, Hereford 
would feel himself compelled to keep her under restraint, 
as he did Lady Seaton and the wives of other noble Scots- 
men. His lip trembled, but fortunately for the preserva- 
tion of his composure, Hereford’s attention was called from 
him by the eager entrance of several other officers, who all 
crowded round him, alike in congratulation, and waiting 
his commands, and perceiving he was agitated, the earl 
turned from him with a courteous bow. Eagerly he seized 
that moment to spring to the side of his sister, to whisper 
the impatient inquiry, “ Agnes, where is Agnes? ” To feel 
his heart a moment throb high, and then sink again by her 
reply, that she had not seen her since he had placed her in 
the arms of the seer; that in the fearful confusion wdiich 
followed, she had looked for her in vain, examined all her 
accustomed haunts, but discovered no traces of her, save 
the silver tissue veil. There was, however, some hope in 
that; Jean Roy, misled by the glittering article, and seeing 
it perchance in the hands of another, might have been de- 
ceived in her prey. Hay, he welcomed the uncertainty of 
suspense ; there was something so fearful, so horrible in the 
idea that his own faithful Agnes was among those black- 
ened and mangled bodies, which Lancaster informed him 
had been discovered beneath the ruins, something so sick- 
ening, so revolting, he could not take advantage of the earl’s 
offer to examine them himself, though, Lancaster added, it 
would not be of much use, for he challenged their dearest 
friends to recognize them. He could not believe such was 
her fate. Dermid had not been seen since the fatal conclu- 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


243 


sion of their marriage; he knew his fidelity, his interest in 
both Agnes and himself, and he could not, he would not be- 
lieve the maniac had decoyed her from his care. But where 
was she? — where, in such a moment, could he have con- 
veyed her? — what would be her final fate? — how would she 
rejoin him? were questions ever thronging on his heart 
and brain, struggling with doubts, with the horrible sus- 
picion still clinging to that shriek which had sounded as the 
ruins fell. Darker and more forebodingly oppressive grew 
these conflicting thoughts, as day after day passed, and still 
she came not, nor were there any tidings of the seer. 

A very brief interval sufficed for the English earls to 
conclude their arrangements at Kildrummie, and prepare 
to march southward, Berwick being the frontier town to 
which the Scottish prisoners were usually conveyed. Their 
loss had been greater than at any other similar siege; more 
than a third of their large army had fallen, several others 
were wounded, and not much above a third remained who 
were fitted to continue in arms. It was a fearful proof of 
the desperate valor of the besieged, but both earls felt it 
would so exasperate their sovereign against the Scottish 
commanders, as to remove the slightest hope of mercy. The 
ruins were with some labor cleared away, the remains of 
the outer wall levelled with the earth, except the tower 
communicating with the drawbridge and barbacan, which 
could be easily repaired. The inner wall Hereford likewise 
commanded to be restored; the keep he turned into a hos- 
pital for the wounded, leaving with them a sufficient garri- 
son to defend the castle, in case of renewed incursions of 
the Scottish patriots, a case, in the present state of the 
country, not very probable. True to his promise, those 
men-at-arms who survived, and whose wounds permitted 
their removal, Hereford set at liberty, not above ten in 
number; dispirited, heart-broken, he felt indeed there was 
no need to impose conditions on them. Those of the trai- 
tors who remained, endeavored by cringing humility, to 
gain the favor of the English; but finding themselves 
shunned and despised, for the commonest English soldier 
was of a nature too noble to bear with aught of treachery, 
they dispersed over the country, finding little in its miser- 
able condition to impart enjoyment to the lives they had 
enacted so base a part to preserve. It may be well to state, 
ere we entirely leave the subject, that the execution of Evan 
Roy, exciting every evil passion in their already rebellious 
hearts, had determined them to conspire for a signal re- 


244 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


venge, the ravings of Jean Roy and the desperate counsels 
of her mother-in-law urging them to the catastrophe we 
have related; the murder of Nigel had been first planned, 
but dismissed as likely to be discovered and thwarted, and 
bring vengeance on their own heads instead of his. Before 
the execution of their comrade and head of the conspiracy, 
they had only been desirous of shunning the horrors of a 
prolonged siege; but afterward, revenge became stronger 
than mere personal safety, and therefore was it they refused 
to take advantage of the safe conduct demanded by Nigel, 
and granted, as we have said. 

The Scottish prisoners were removed from the castle a 
few hours after its capitulation, and placed in honorable re- 
straint, in separate pavilions. Lancaster, whose romantic 
admiration for his antagonist had not been in the least di- 
minished by Sir Nigel’s bearing in captivity and the lofty 
tone of the young knight’s society and conversation, which 
he frequently courted, absolutely made him shrink from 
heading the force which was to conduct him a prisoner to 
England, for he well knew those very qualities, calling forth 
every spark of chivalry in his own bosom, would be only so 
many incitements to Edward for his instant execution. 
He therefore demanded that the superintending the works 
of the garrison and keeping a strict watch upon the move- 
ments of the adjoining country should devolve on him, and 
Hereford, as the older and wiser, should conduct his pris- 
oners to the border, and report the events of the siege to 
his sovereign. His colleague acceded, and the eighth day 
from the triumph of the besiegers was fixed on to commence 
their march. 

It was on the evening of the seventh day that the Earl of 
Hereford, then engaged in earnest council with Lancaster, 
on subjects relating to their military charge, was informed 
that an old man and a boy so earnestly entreated speech with 
him, that they had even moved the iron heart of Hugo 
de 1’Orme, the earl’s esquire, who himself craved audience 
for them. 

“ They must bear some marvellous charm about them, an 
they have worked upon thee, De l’Orme,” said his master, 
smiling. “ In good sooth, let them enter.” 

Yet there was nothing very striking in their appearance 
when they came. The old man indeed was of a tall, almost 
majestic figure, and it was only the snowy whiteness of his 
hair and flowing beard that betrayed his age, for his eye 
was still bright, his form unbent. He was attired as a 


THE DAYS OE BKUCE. 


245 


minstrel, his viol slung across his breast, a garb which ob- 
tained for its possessor free entrance alike into camp and 
castle, hall and bower, to all parties, to all lands, friendly or 
hostile, as it might be. His companion was a slight boy, 
seemingly little more than thirteen or fourteen, with small, 
exquisitely delicate features; his complexion either dark or 
sunburnt; his eyes were bent down, and their long, very 
dark lashes rested on his cheek, but when raised, their beau- 
tiful blue seemed so little in accordance with the brunette 
skin, that the sun might be deemed more at fault than 
Nature; his hair, of the darkest brown, clustered closely 
round his throat in short thick curls ; his garb was that of a 
page, but more rude than the general habiliments of those 
usually petted members of noble establishments, and fa- 
vored both Hereford and Lancaster’s belief that he was 
either the son or grandson of his companion. 

“ Ye are welcome, fair sirs,” was the elder earl’s kindly 
salutation, when his esquire had retired. “ Who and what 
are ye, and what crave ye with me ? ” 

u We are Scotsmen, an it so please you, noble lords,” re- 
plied the old man ; “ followers and retainers of the house of 
Bruce, more particularly of him so lately fallen into your 
power.” 

“ Then, by mine honor, my good friends, ye had done 
wiser to benefit by the liberty I promised and gave to those 
of his followers who escaped this devastating siege. Where- 
fore are ye here ? ” 

“ In the name of this poor child, to beseech a boon, my 
noble lord ; for me, my calling permitteth my going where I 
list, unquestioned, unrestrained, and if I ask permission to 
abide with ye, Scotsman and follower of the Bruce as I am, 
I know ye will not say me nay.” 

“ I would not, an ye besought such a boon, old man,” an- 
swered the earl ; “ yet I would advise thee to tempt not thy 
fate, for even thy minstrel garb, an thou braggest of thy 
service to the Bruce, I cannot promise to be thy safeguard 
in Edward’s court-, whither I give ye notice I wend my way 
to-morrow’s dawn. For this child, what wouldst thou — 
hath he no voice, no power of his own to speak ? ” 

The aged minstrel looked at his charge, whose eyes were 
still bent on the floor; the heaving of his doublet denoted 
some internal emotion, but ere the old man could answer 
for him, he had made a few hasty steps forward, and bent 
his knee before Hereford. 

“ ’Tis a simple boon I crave, my lord,” he said, in a voice 


246 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


so peculiarly sweet, that it seemed to impart new beauty to 
his features ; “ a very simple boon, yet my lips tremble to 
ask it, for thou mayest deem it more weighty than it seemeth 
to me, and thou alone canst grant it.” 

“ Speak it, fair child, whatever it be,” replied the earl, 
reassuringly, and laying his hand caressingly on the boy’s 
head. “ Thou art, methinks, over young to crave a boon we 
may not grant; too young, although a Scotsman, for Here- 
ford to treat thee aught but kindly. What wouldst thou ? ” 

“ Permission to tend on my young lord, Sir Nigel 
Bruce,” answered the boy, more firmly, and for the first time 
fixing the full gaze of his beautiful eyes on the earl’s face. 
“ Oh, my lord, what is there in that simple boon, to bid thee 
knit thy brow as if it must not be ? ” he added, more agi- 
tated. u The noble Hereford cannot fear a child ; or, if he 
doubted me, he cannot doubt the honor of his prisoner, an 
honor, pure, unsullied as his own.” 

“ Thou speakest not as the child thou seemest,” replied 
Hereford, musingly ; “ and yet I know not, misery makes 
sages of us long ere the rose of youth hath faded. For this, 
the boon, I know not how it may be granted ; it is not usual 
to permit other than English attendants on our Scottish 
prisoners. Since Sir Niel Campbell’s escape through the 
agency of his Scottish attendant, it hath been most strictly 
prohibited.” 

“ Oh, do not, do not say me nay ! ” entreated the boy ; 
“ I ask but to share his imprisonment, to be with him, serve 
him, tend him. I ask no more liberty than is granted unto 
him; the rudest, coarsest fare, a little straw, or the bare 
ground beside his couch. I can do naught to give him free- 
dom, and if I could, were there an open path before him — 
did I beseech him on my knees to fly — if he hath surren- 
dered, as I have heard, to thee, rescue or no rescue, he would 
scorn my counsel, and abide thy prisoner still. Oh, no, no ! 
I swear to thee I will do naught that can make thee regret 
thou hast granted an orphan’s prayer.” 

“ And who art thou that pleadeth thus ? ” inquired thq 
earl, moved alike by the thrilling sweetness of his voice and 
the earnestness of his manner. “ Thou must have some 
wondrous interest in him to prefer imprisonment with him 
to all the joys which liberty can give.” 

“ And I have interest,” answered the boy, fervently ; 
“ the interest of gratitude, and faithfulness, and love. An 
orphan, miserably an orphan — alone upon the wide earth — 
he hath protected, cherished, aye, and honored me with his 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


247 


confidence and love. He tended me in sorrow, and I would 
pour back into his noble heart all the love, the devotion he 
hath excited in mine. Little can I do, alas! naught but 
love and serve; yet, yet, I know he would not reject even 
this — he would let me love him still ! ” 

“ Grant the poor boy his boon,” whispered Lancaster, 
hurriedly ; “ of a truth he moveth even me.” 

“ Thine heart is of right true mettle, my child,” said his 
colleague, even tenderly. “ Yet bethink thee all thou must 
endure if I grant thy boon; not while with me, for there 
would be a foul blot upon my escutcheon did so noble a 
knight as Sir Higel Bruce receive aught save respect and 
honor at my hands. But in this business I am but a tool, 
an agent; when once within the boundaries of Edward’s 
court, Sir Higel is no longer my prisoner; I must resign 
him to my sovereign; and then, I dare not give thee hope 
of gentle treatment either for thyself or him.” 

“ I will brave it,” answered the boy, calmly ; “ danger, 
aye, death in his service, were preferable to my personal lib- 
erty, with the torture of the thought upon me, that I shrunk 
from his side when fidelity and love were most needed.” 

“ But that very faithfulness, that very love, my child, 
will make thy fate the harder; the scaffold and the axe, if 
not the cord,” he added, in a low, stifled tone, " I fear me, 
will be his doom, despite his youth, his gallantry — all that 
would make me save him. Thou turnest pale at the bare 
mention of such things, how couldst thou bear to witness 
them ? ” 

“ Better than to think of them ; to sit me down in idle 
safety and feel that he hath gone forth to this horrible doom, 
and I have done naught to soothe and tend him on his way,” 
replied the boy, firmly, though his very lip blanched at Here- 
ford’s words. “ But must these things be ? Is Edward so 
inexorable ? ” 

“ Aye, unto all who thwart him now,” said the earl ; 
“ there is no hope for any of the race of Bruce. Be ad- 
vised, then, gentle boy, retain thy freedom while thou 
mayest.” 

“ Ho, no ! ” he answered, passionately. “ Oh, do not 
seek to fright me from my purpose; do not think aught of 
me, save but to grant my boon, and oh, I will bless thee, 
pray for thee to my dying hour! thou wilt, I know thou 
wilt.” 

“ I were no father could I refuse thee, my poor child,” 
he replied, with earnest tenderness. “ Alas ! I fear me thou 


2f8 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


hast asked but increase of misery, yet be it as tbou list. 
And yet,” be added, after a brief pause, during which the 
boy had sprung from his knee, with an inarticulate cry of 
joy, and flung himself into the minstrel’s arms, “ Sir Nigel 
hath resolutely refused the attendance of any of his former 
followers, who would willingly have attended him to Eng- 
land. Hast thou so much influence, thinkest thou, to 
change his purpose in thy favor ? ” 

“ I know not,” answered the boy, timidly; “yet an it 
please your noble lordship to permit my pleading mine 
own cause without witness, I may prevail, as I have done 
before.” 

“ Be it so, then,” replied the earl. “ And now, ere we 
part, I would bid thee remember I have trusted thee ; I have 
granted that to thee, without condition , with perfect liberty 
of action, which to others could only have been granted on 
their surrendering themselves, rescue or no rescue, even as 
thy master. I have done this, trusting to that noble faith- 
fulness, the candor and honesty of youth, which hath 
breathed forth in all that thou hast said. Let me not re- 
pent it. And now, Hugo de l’Orme,” he called aloud, but 
Lancaster himself declared his intention of conducting the 
boy to Sir Nigel’s tent, and the esquire was consequently 
dismissed; but ere they departed, the boy turned once 
more to the aged minstrel. 

“ And thou — whither goest thou ? ” he said, in low yet 
thrilling tones. “ My more than father, thou hast seen thy 
child’s earnest wish fulfilled ; that for which thou didst con- 
duct me hither is accomplished; yet ere I say farewell, tell 
me — oh, tell me, whither goest thou ? ” 

“ I know not,” answered the old man, struggling with 
unexpressed emotion ; “ yet think not of me, my child, I 
shall be free, be safe, untouched by aught of personal ill, 
while young and lovely ones, for whom it would be bliss to 
die, are crushed and bleeding in their spring ; the mountains, 
and rocks, and woods, yet unstained with blood, call on me 
to return, and be at rest within their caves. The love I bear 
to thee and him thou seekest hath yet a louder voice to bid 
me follow ye. I know not whither I shall go, yet an my 
vision telleth that thou needst my aid, I shall not be far 
from thee. Farewell, my child; and ye, true-hearted lords, 
the blessing of an aged man repay ye for the kindly deed 
this day that ye have done.” He pressed the boy in his 
arms, reverentially saluted the earls, and passed from their 
tent as he spoke. 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


249 


A few words passed between the warriors, and then 
Lancaster desired the page to follow him. In silence they 
proceeded through the camp, avoiding the more bustling 
parts, where the soldiery were evidently busied in preparing 
for the morrow’s march, and inclining toward the wooded 
bank of the river. The eye of the Earl of Lancaster had 
scarcely moved from the page during his interview with 
Hereford, though the boy, engrossed in his own feelings, 
had failed to remark it. He now glanced rapidly and 
searchingly round him, and perceiving the ground perfectly 
clear, not a soldier visible, he suddenly paused in his hasty 
stride, and laying his hand heavily on the boy’s shoulder, 
said, in a deep, impressive voice, “ I know not who or what 
thou art, but I love thy master, and know that he is ill at 
ease, not from captivity, but from uncertainty as to the fate 
of one beloved. If it be, as I suspect, in thy power entirely 
to remove this uneasiness, be cautioned, and whoever thou 
mayest be, let not one in this camp, from the noble Earl of 
Hereford himself to the lowest soldier, suspect thou art 
other than thou seemest — a faithful page. The rage of Ed- 
ward is deadly, and all who bear the name of Bruce, be it 
male or female, will suffer from that wrath. Tell this to 
thy lord. I ask not his confidence nor thine, nay, I would 
refuse it were it offered — I would know no more than my 
own thoughts, but I honor him, aye, and from my very heart 
I honor thee! Hush! not a word in answer; my speech is 
rude, but my heart is true; and now a few steps more and 
we are there,” and without waiting for reply he turned sud- 
denly, and the page found himself in the very centre of the 
camp, near the entrance of a small pavilion, before which 
two sentinels were stationed, fully armed, and pacing up 
and down their stated posts; the pennon of Hereford float- 
ed from the centre staff, above the drapery, marking the 
tent and all its appurtenances peculiarly the earl’s. The 
watchword was exchanged, and the sentinels lowered their 
arms on recognizing one of their leaders. 

“ Let this boy have egress and ingress from and to this 
tent, unquestioned and unmolested,” he said ; “ he has the 
Earl of Hereford’s permission, nay commands, to wait on 
Sir Nigel Bruce. His business lieth principally with him; 
but if he hath need to quit his side, he is to pass free. Re- 
port this to your comrades.” The soldiers bowed in re- 
spectful acquiescence. “ For thee, young man, this toy will 
give thee free passage where thou listeth, none shall molest 
thee; and now, farewell — God speed thee.” He unclasped 


250 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


a ruby brooch, curiously set in antique gold, from his collar, 
and placed it in the boy’s hand. 

“ Dost thou not enter ? ” asked the page, in a voice that 
quivered, and the light of the torches falling full on his 
face disclosed to Lancaster a look of such voiceless grati- 
tude, it haunted him for many a long day. 

“ No,” he said, half smiling, and in a lower voice; 
“ hast thou forgotten thy cause was to be pleaded without 
witness? I have not, if thou hast. I will see thy noble 
master ere he depart, not now; thou wilt, I trust me, take 
him better comfort than I could.” 

He lifted the hangings as he spoke, and the boy passed 
in, his heart beating well-nigh to suffocation as he did so. 
It was in a small compartment leading to the principal 
chamber of the tent he found himself at first, and Sir Nigel 
was not there. With a fleet, yet noiseless movement, he 
drew aside the massive curtain, let it fall again behind him, 
and stood unperceived in the presence of him he sought. 

The brow of Sir Nigel rested on his hand, his attitude 
was as one bowed and drooping ’neath despondency; the 
light of the taper fell full upon his head, bringing it out in 
beautiful profile. It was not his capture alone which had 
made him thus, the boy felt and knew ; the complicated evils 
which attended his king and country in his imprison- 
ment were yet not sufficient to crush that spirit to the earth. 
It was some other anxiety, some yet nearer woe; there had 
been many strange rumors afloat, both of Sir Nigel’s bridal 
and the supposed fate of that bride, and the boy, though he 
knew them false, aye, and that the victim of Jean -Roy was 
a young attendant of Agnes, who had been collecting to- 
gether the trinkets of her mistress, to save them from the 
pillage which would attend the conquest of the English, 
and had been thus mistaken by the maniac — the boy, we say, 
though he knew this, had, instead of denying it, encouraged 
the report, and therefore was at no loss to discover his mas- 
ter’s woe. He advanced, knelt down, and in a trembling, 
husky voice, addressed him. “ My lord — Sir Nigel.” 

The young knight started, and looked at the intruder, 
evidently without recognizing him. “ What wouldst thou ? ” 
he said, in a tone somewhat stern. “Who art thou, thus 
boldly intruding on my privacy? Begone, I need thee 
not ! ” 

“ The Earl of Hereford hath permitted me to tend thee, 
follow thee,” answered the page in the same subdued voice. 
“ My gracious lord, do not thou refuse me.” 


THE DAYS OP BBUCE. 


251 


“ Tend me — follow me ! whither — to the scaffold ? Seek 
some other master, my good boy. I know thee not, and can 
serve thee little, and need no earthly aid. An thou seekest 
noble service, go follow Hereford; he is a generous and 
knightly lord.” 

“ But I am Scotch, my lord, and would rather follow 
thee to death than Hereford to victory.” 

“ Poor child, poor child ! ” repeated Nigel, sadly. “ I 
should know thee, methinks, an thou wouldst follow me so 
faithfully, and yet I do not. What claim have I upon thy 
love?” 

“ Dost thou not know me, Nigel?” The boy spoke in 
his own peculiarly sweet and most thrilling voice, and rais- 
ing his head, fixed his full glance upon the knight. 

A wild cry burst from Nigel’s lips, he sprang up, gazed 
once again, and in another moment the page and knight 
had sprung into each other’s arms; the arms of the former 
were twined round the warrior’s neck, and Sir Nigel had 
bent down his lordly head; burning tears and impassioned 
kisses were mingled on the soft cheek that leaned against 
his breast. 


CHAPTER XXI. 

The ancient town of Berwick-upon-Tweed, associated as 
it is with Scottish and English history from the time these 
two kingdoms had a name, presented a somewhat different 
aspect in the year 1307 to that of the present day. The key 
to both countries, it was ever a scene of struggle, unless the 
sister kingdoms chanced to be at peace, an event in the mid- 
dle ages of rare occurrence, and whoever was its fortunate 
possessor was undeniably considered as the greater power. 
Since the death of Alexander it had been captured no less 
than three times by Edward in 1296, by Wallace the suc- 
ceeding year, and recaptured by the English the following 
spring. To Edward, consequently, it now belonged, and 
many and fearful had been the sanguinary executions its 
walls had beheld. Its streets had been deluged with noble 
Scottish blood; its prisons filled with the nobles of Scot- 
land; even high-minded women, who by their countenance 
and faithfulness had given a yet higher tone to patriotism 
and valor, were said to be there immured. It might have 
17 


252 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


been termed not alone the key, but the dungeon and grave 
of Scotland; and many a noble spirit which had never 
quailed in the battle’s front, shrunk back appalled as it 
neared those dismal walls. 

In the time of Edward, the fortifications, though merely 
consisting of a deep moat and wooden palisades, instead of 
the stone wall still remaining, inclosed a much larger space 
than the modern town. A magnificent castle, with its 
“ mounts, rampiers, and flankers,” its towers, walls, and 
courts, crowned an easy ascent overhanging the Tweed, and 
was at this period peopled by a powerful garrison, filled with 
immense stores, both of arms, artillery, and provisions, and 
many unhappy prisoners, who from their own lonely turrets 
could look beyond the silver Tweed on their own beautiful 
land, their hearts burning with the vain desire to free her 
from her chains. Both square and round towers guarded 
the palisades and moat surrounding the town, which pre- 
sented a goodly collection of churches, hospitals, dwelling- 
houses, stores, and monastic buildings; from all of which 
crowds were continually passing and repassing on their sev- 
eral ways, and forming altogether a motley assemblage of 
knights, nobles, men-at-arms, archers, the various orders of 
monks, the busy leech from the hospital, the peaceful burgh- 
er, the bustling storekeeper, and artisan, noble dames and 
pretty maidens — all in the picturesque costumes of the day. 
jostling one another, unconscious of the curious effect they 
each assisted to produce, and ever and anon came the tramp- 
ling of fiery steeds. It was a rich, thriving, bustling town, 
always presenting curious scenes of activity, at present ap- 
parently under some excitement, which the gay knights and 
their followers tended not a little to increase. 

The popular excitement had, strange to say, been con- 
fined for an unusually long time to one subject. Orders 
had been received from King Edward for the erection of an 
extraordinary cage or tower, curiously worked in stone and 
iron, on the very highest turret of the castle, visible to every 
eye, of a circular form, with pyramidal points, supporting 
gilded balls, giving it the appearance, when completed, of a 
huge coronet or crown. It was barred and cross-barred 
with iron on all sides, effectually preventing egress from 
within, but exposing its inmate, whoever that might be, to 
every passer-by. The impatient king had commanded sev- 
eral of the artisans employed in its erection to be thrown 
into prison, because it was not completed fast enough to 
please him; but, despite his wrath and impatience, the 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


253 


work of fashioning the iron, wood, and stone, as he required, 
occasioned them to proceed but slowly, and it was now, three 
months after the royal order had been given, only just com- 
pleted, and firmly fixed on the principal turret of the castle. 
Day after day the people flocked to gaze and marvel for 
whom it could be intended, and when it would be occupied ; 
their thoughts only turned from it by the intelligence that 
the Earl of Hereford, with some Scottish prisoners of high 
rank, was within four-and-twenty hours’ march of the 
town, and was there to deliver up his captives to the senes- 
chal of the castle, the Earl of Berwick. At the same time 
rumors were afloat, that the prisoner for whom that cage had 
been erected was, under a strong guard, advancing from 
Carlisle, and likely to encounter Hereford at the castle 
gates. 

The popular excitement increased threefold; the whole 
town seemed under the influence of a restless fever, utterly 
preventing the continuance of their usual avocations, or per- 
mitting them to rest quiet in their houses. Crowds filled 
the streets, and pressed and fumed to obtain places by the 
great gates and open squares of the castle, through which 
both parties must pass. That wind, rain, and sunshine, 
alternately ruled the day, was a matter of small importance ; 
nor did it signify that English soldiers were returning vic- 
torious, with Scottish prisoners, being a thing now of most 
common occurrence. Before the day was over, however, 
they found anticipation for once had been less marvellous 
than reality, and stranger things were seen and heard than 
they had dreamed of. 

From sunrise till noon they waited and watched, and 
waxed impatient in vain. About that time trumpets and 
drums were heard from the south, and there was a general 
rush toward the bridge, and hearts beat high in expectancy 
of they knew not what, as a gallant band of English archers 
and men-at-arms, headed by some few knights, were dis- 
covered slowly and solemnly advancing from the Carlisle 
road. Where, and who was the prisoner? A person of 
some consequence, of dangerous influence it must be, else 
why had the king made such extraordinary provision for 
confinement ? There were not wanting suggestions and 
guesses, and wondrous fancies ; . for as yet there was such 
a close guard in the centre of the cavalcade, that the very 
person of the prisoner could not be distinguished. Nay, 
there were some who ventured to hint and believe it might 
be the excommunicated Earl of Carrick himself. It was 


254 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


most likely, for whom else could the cage, so exactly like a 
crown, be intended? and there were many who vaunted the 
wise policy of Edward, at having hit on such an expedient 
for lowering his rival’s pride. Others, indeed, declared the 
idea was all nonsense ; it was not likely he would incur such 
expense, king as he was, merely to mortify a traitor he had 
sworn to put to death. The argument waxed loud and 
warm. Meanwhile the cavalcade had crossed the bridge, 
been received through the south gate, and in the same slow 
and solemn pomp proceeded through the town. 

“ By all the saints, it is only a woman ! ” was the infor- 
mation shouted by an eager spectator, who had clambered 
above the heads of his fellows to obtain the first and most 
coveted view. His words were echoed in blank amazement. 

“ Aye, clothed in white like a penitent, with her black 
hair streaming all over her shoulders, without any covering 
on her head at all, and nothing but a thin, torn sandal on 
her bare feet; and the knights look black as thunder, as if 
they like not the business they are engaged in.” 

It was even so. There was an expression on the face of 
the officers impossible to be misunderstood; frowningly, 
darkly, they obeyed their sovereign’s mandate, simply be- 
cause they dared not disobey; but there was not one among 
them who would not rather have sought the most deadly 
front of battle than thus conduct a woman, aye, and a most 
noble one, unto her prison. The very men, rude, stern, as 
they mostly were, shared this feeling ; they guarded her with 
lowered heads and knitted brows; and if either officer or 
man-at-arms had to address her, it was with an involuntary 
yet genuine movement and manner of respect that little ac- 
corded with their present relative position. The crowds 
looked first at the cavalcade and marvelled, then at the 
prisoner, and they did not marvel more.. 

Clad as she was, in white, flowing garments, very similar 
to those worn by penitents, her head wholly undefended 
from cold or rain even by a veil; her long, luxuriant, jet- 
black hair, in which as yet, despite of care and woe, no silver 
thread had mingled, falling round her from her noble brow, 
which shone forth from its shade white as snow, and dis- 
playing that most perfect face, which anguish had only 
chiselled into paler, purer marble; it could not rob it of its 
beauty, that beauty which is the holy emanation of the soul, 
that lingered still with power to awe the rudest heart, to 
bow the proudest in voluntary respect. 

The sovereign of England had commanded this solemn 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


255 


procession and its degrading accompaniments to humble, 
to crush to dust, the woman who had dared defy his power, 
but its was himself alone he humbled. As she walked there, 
surrounded by guards, by gazing hundreds, on foot, and but 
protected from the flinty ground by a thin sandal, her step 
was as firm and unfaltering, her attitude, her bearing as dig- 
nified, as calmly, imposingly majestic as when, in the midst 
of Scotland’s patriots, she had placed the crown on the 
Bruce’s head. Edward sought to debase her, but she was 
not debased; to compel her to regret the part that she had 
acted, but she gloried in it still; to acknowledge his power 
— but in all he failed. 

Calmly and majestically the Countess of Buchan pro- 
ceeded on her way, neither looking to the right or left, nor 
evincing by the slightest variation of countenance her con- 
sciousness of the many hundreds gazing on, or that they 
annoyed or disturbed her; her spirit was wrapt in it- 
self. We should assert falsehood did we say she did not 
suffer; she did, but it was a mother’s agony heightened 
by a patriot’s grief. She believed her son, who had 
been in truth the idol of her mourning heart, had indeed 
fallen. Her Agnes was not among the queen’s train, of 
whose captivity she had been made aware, though not al- 
lowed speech with them. Where was she — what would be 
her fate? She only knew her as a lovely, fragile flower, 
liable to be crushed under the first storm ; and pictured her, 
rudely severed from Nigel, perchance in the hands of some 
lawless spoiler, and heart-broken, dying, Shuddering with 
anguish, she thought not of her own fate — she thought but 
of her children, of her country; and if King Robert did 
enter these visions, it was simply as her sovereign, as one 
whose patriotism would yet achieve the liberty of Scotland ; 
but there was a dimness even o’er that dream, for the figure 
of her noble boy was gone, naught but a blank — dull, shape- 
less — occupied that spot in the vision of the future, which 
once his light had filled. 

The castle-yard was at length gained, and a halt and 
some change in the line of march ensued; the officers and 
men formed in a compact crescent, leaving the countess, a 
herald, trumpeters, and some of the highest knights, in 
front. So intense was the interest of the crowd at this 
moment, that they did not heed the rapid advance of a gal- 
lant body of horse and foot from the north, except to rail 
at the pressure they occasioned in forcing their way through. 
They gained the castle-yard at length, and there halted, 


256 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


and fell back in utter astonishment at the scene they 
witnessed. 

The herald had drawn a parchment from his belt, and 
made a step forward as if to speak. The knights, in sullen 
silence, leant upon their sheathed swords, without even 
glancing at their prisoner, wdio appeared far the most com- 
posed and dignified of all present, and, after a brief pause, 
words to this effect were distinguished by the crowd. 

“ To our loyal and loving subjects of both North and 
South Britain, Edward, by the grace of God, King of Eng- 
land, Wales, France, and Scotland, greeting. Whereas Isa- 
bella, born of Fife, and late of Buchan, which latter she 
hath, by foul dishonor and utter disregard of marriage 
vows, now forfeited, hath done traitorously and disloyally 
alike to her sovereign lord the king, and to her gracious 
lord and husband, John, Earl of Buchan, whom, for his 
fidelity, we hold in good favor. As she hath not struck by 
the sword, so she shall not perish by the sword; but for her 
lawless conspiracy, she shall be shut up in a stone and iron 
chamber, circular as the crown she gave, in this proclaiming 
to both countries her everlasting infamy. And this we do 
in mercy; for, whereas she deserveth death, we do remit 
the same, and give her time to repent her of her heinous 
crime. 

“ Given at our palace of Carlisle, this twenty-third day 
of February, in the year of our Lord and Saviour, one thou- 
sand three hundred and seven. God save the King ! ” 

But the loyal ejaculation was not echoed, nay, the herald 
himself had read the proclamation, as if every word had 
been forced from him, and the eyes of every knight and 
soldier had been fixed upon the ground, as if shame rested 
on them rather than on their prisoner. A dead silence for 
a few minutes followed, broken only by some faint cries of 
“ God save King Edward, and down with all traitors! ” 
which seemed raised more to drown the groans which invol- 
untarily burst forth, than as the echo of the heart. They 
dared not evince the faintest sign of disapproval, for they 
stood on precarious ground; a groan even might be pun- 
ished by their irritable king as treachery; but there was 
one present who cared little for this charge. Scarcely had 
the words passed the herald’s lips, before a young man, 
whose bare head and lack of all weapons would have pro- 
claimed him one of the Earl of Hereford’s prisoners, had 
not the attention of all been turned from him by the one 
engrossing object, now snatching a sword from a soldier 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


257 


near him, sprung from his horse, and violently attacking the 
herald, exclaiming in a voice of thunder: 

“ Liar and slave ! thinkest thou there is none near to 
give the lie to thy foul slanders — none to defend the fair 
fame, the stainless honor of this much-abused lady? Das- 
tard and coward, fit mouthpiece of a dishonored and blas- 
phemous tyrant ! go tell him, his prisoner — aye, Nigel Bruce 
— thrusts back his foul lies into his very teeth. Ha! cow- 
ard and slave, wouldst thou shun me ? ” 

A scene of indescribable confusion now ensued. The 
herald, a man not much in love with war, stood cowering 
and trembling before his adversary, seeking to cover himself 
with his weapon, but, from his trembling hold, ineffectually. 
The stature of the youthful Scotsman appeared towering, as 
he stood over him with his uplifted sword, refusing to strike 
a defenceless man, but holding him with a grip of iron ; his 
cheek flushed crimson, his nostrils distended, for his soul 
was moved with a mightier, darker passion than had ever 
stirred its depths before. The soldiers of both parties, 
joined, too, by some from the castle — for a party headed by 
the Earl of Berwick himself had attended to give counte- 
nance to the proclamation — rushed forward, but involunta- 
rily fell back, awed for the moment by the mighty spirit of 
one man; the knights, roused from their sullen posture, 
looked much as if they would, if they dared, have left the 
herald to his fate. Hereford and Berwick at the same instant 
spurred forward their steeds, the one exclaiming, “ Madman, 
let go your hold — you are tempting your own fate! Nigel, 
for the love of Heaven ! for the sake of those that love you, 
be not so rash ! ” the other thundering forth, “ Cut down 
the traitor, an he will not loose his hold. Forward, cow- 
ardly knaves! will ye hear your king insulted, and not re- 
venge it ? forward, I say ! fear ye a single man ? ” 

And numbers, spurred on by his words, dashed forward 
to obey him, but fearlessly Sir Nigel Bruce retained his 
hold with his left hand, and with his right grasped tighter 
his sword, and stood, with the fierce undaunted port of a 
lion lashed into fury, gazing on his foes; but ere he had 
crossed with the foremost weapons, a slight lad burst 
through the gathering crowd, and with a piercing shriek 
threw himself at his master’s feet, and grasping his knees, 
seemed by his pleading looks, for his words were inaudible, 
imploring him to desist from his rashness. At the same 
moment another form pressed through the soldiers, her look, 
her mien compelling them involuntarily to open their ranks 


258 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


and give her passage. The sword of Nigel was in the act of 
falling on a second foe, the first lay at his feet, when his 
arm was caught in its descent, and Isabella of Buchan stood 
at his side. 

“ Forbear! ” she said, in those rich impressive tones that 
ever forced obedience. “ Nigel Bruce, brother of my sover- 
eign, friend of my son, forbear ! strike not one blow for me. 
Mine honor needs no defence by those that love me; my 
country will acquit me; the words of England’s monarch, 
angered at a woman’s defiance of his power, affect me not! 
Noble Nigel, excite not further wrath against thyself by 
this vain struggle for my sake; put up thy sword, ere it is 
forced from thee. Let go thy hold; this man is but an 
instrument, why wreak thy wrath on him? Must I speak, 
implore in vain? Nay, then, I do command thee!” 

And those who gazed on her, as she drew that stately 
form to its full height, as they heard those accents of im- 
perative command, scarce marvelled that Edward should 
dread her influence, woman as she was. Despite the in- 
creasing wrath on the Earl of Berwick’s brow, the men wait- 
ed to see the effect of these words. There was still an ex- 
pression of ill-controlled passion on Nigel’s features. He 
waited one moment when she ceased to speak, then slowly 
and deliberately shook the herald by the collar, and hurled 
him from his hold; snapped his sword in twain, and fling- 
ing it from him, folded his arms on his breast, and calmly 
uttering, “ Pardon me, noble lady, mine honor were im- 
pugned had I suffered that dastardly villain to pass hence 
unpunished — let Edward acts as he lists, it matters little 
now,” waited with impenetrable resolve the rage he had 
provoked. 

“ Nigel, Nigel, rash, impetuous boy, what hast thou 
done ? ” exclaimed the countess, losing all mien and accent 
of command in the terror with which she clung round him, 
as if to protect him from all ill, in the tone and look of ma- 
ternal tenderness with which she addressed him. “ Why, 
why must it be my ill fate to hurl down increase of misery 
and danger on all whom I love ? ” 

“ Speak not so, noble lady, in mercy do not ! ” he whis- 
pered in reply ; “ keep that undaunted spirit shown but now, 
I can better bear it than this voice of anguish. And thou,” 
he added, laying his hand on the shoulder of the boy, who 
still clung to his knees, as if fascinated there by speechless 
terror, and gazed alternately on him and the countess with 
eyes glazed almost in madness, “ up, up ; this is no place for 


THE DAYS OF BKUCE. 


259 


thee. What can they do with me but slay — let them come 
on — better, far better than a scaffold ! ” but the boy moved 
not, Nigel spoke in vain. 

The fate he. dared seemed indeed threatening. Wrought 
well-nigh to frenzy at this daring insult to his sovereign, 
in whose acts of cruelty and oppression he could far better 
sympathize than in his more knightly qualities, the Earl of 
Berwick loudly and fiercely called on his soldiers to advance 
and cut down the traitor, to bring the heaviest fetters and 
bear him to the lowest dungeon. The men, roused from 
their stupor of amaze, rushed on impetuously to obey him; 
their naked swords already gleamed round Nigel; the 
Countess of Buchan was torn from his side, her own especial 
guards closing darkly around her; but vainly did they seek 
to unclasp the convulsive grasp of the boy from Nigel, he 
neither shrieked nor spake, but he remained in that one 
posture, rigid as stone. 

“ Fiends! monsters! would ye, dare ye touch a boy, a 
child as this !” -shouted Nigel, struggling with herculean 
strength to free himself from the rude grasp of the soldiers, 
as he beheld the sharp steel pointed at the breast of the boy, 
to compel him to unloose his hold. “Villains, cowards! 
bear back and let me speak with him,” and nerved to mad- 
ness by the violence of his emotions, he suddenly wrenched 
himself away, the rapidity of the movement throwing one 
of the men to the earth, and bent over the boy; again they 
rushed forward, they closed upon him, they tore away the 
lad by force of numbers, and flung him senseless on the 
earth; they sought to bear away their prisoner, but at that 
moment Hereford, who had been parleying loudly and 
wrathfully with Berwick, spurred his charger in the very 
midst of them, and compelled them to bear back. 

“ Back, back ! ” he exclaimed, making a path for himself 
with his drawn sword ; “ how dare ye thrust yourselves be- 
twixt me and my lawful prisoner, captive of my sword and 
power? what right have ye to dare detain him? Let go 
your hold ; none but the men whose prowess gained this gal- 
lant prize shall guard him till my sovereign’s will be known. 
Back, back, I say ! ” 

“Traitor!” retorted Berwick, “he is no longer your 
prisoner. An insult offered to King Edward, in the loyal 
citadel of Berwick, in my very presence, his representative 
as I stand, shall meet with fit retribution. He hath insulted 
his sovereign by act and word, and I attach him of high 
treason and will enforce my charge. Forward, I say! ” 


260 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


“ And I say back ! ” shouted the Earl of Hereford ; “ I 
tell thee, proud earl, he is my prisoner, and mine alone. 
Thou mayest vaunt thy loyalty, thy representation of maj- 
esty, as thou listeth, mine hath been proved at the good 
sword’s point, and Edward will deem me no traitor because 
I protect a captive, who hath surrendered himself a knight 
to a knight, rescue or no rescue, from this unseemly vio- 
lence. I bandy no more words with such as thee ; back ! the 
first man that dares lay hold on him I chastise with my 
sword.” 

“ Thou shalt repent this ! ” muttered Berwick, with a 
suppressed yet terrible oath, but he dared proceed no 
further. 

A signal from their leader brought up all Hereford’s 
men, who, in compact order and perfect silence, surrounded 
their prisoner. Sternly the earl called for a pair of hand- 
cuffs, and with his own hands fastened them on his captive. 
“ It grieves me,” he said, “ to see a brave man thus mana- 
cled, but thine own mad act hath brought it on thyself. 
And now, my Lord of Berwick, an it please thee to proceed, 
we demand admission to thy citadel in King Edward’s name. 
Bring up the other prisoners.” 

Concealing his wrath with difficulty, the Earl of Berwick 
and his attendants dashed forward over the drawbridge into 
the castle at full speed, closing the gates and lowering the 
portcullis after them. After a brief space, the portcullis 
was again raised, the gates flung wide apart, and the men-at- 
arms were discerned lining either side, in all due form and 
homage to the officers of their sovereign. During the wrath- 
ful words passing between the two earls, the attention of the 
crowd had been given alternately to them and to the 
Countess of Buchan, who had utterly forgotten her own pre- 
carious situation in anxiety for Nigel, and in pity for the 
unfortunate child, who had been hurled by the soldiers close 
to the spot where she stood. 

“ Do not leave him there, he will be trampled on,” she 
said, imploringly, to the officers beside her. “ He can do 
no harm, poor child, Scotch though he be. A little water, 
only bring me a little water, and he will speedily recover.” 

All she desired was done, the boy was tenderly raised and 
brought within the circle of her guards, and laid on the 
ground at her feet. She knelt down beside him, chafed his 
cold hands within her own, and moistened his lips and brow 
with water. After a while his scattered senses returned, he 
started up in a sitting posture, and gazed in wild inquiry 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


261 


around him, uttering a few inarticulate words, and then 
saying aloud, “ Sir Nigel, my lord, my — my — master, where 
is he ? oh ! let me go to him ; why am I here ? ” 

“ Thou shalt go to him, poor boy, as soon as thy strength 
returns; an they have let thee follow him from Scotland, 
surely they will not part ye now,” said the countess sooth- 
ingly, and her voice seemed to rouse the lad into more con- 
sciousness. He gazed long in her face, with an expression 
which at that time she could not define, but which startled 
and affected her, and she put her arm round him and kissed 
his brow. A convulsive almost agonized sob broke from the 
lad’s breast, and caused his slight frame to shake as with 
an ague, then suddenly he knelt before her, and, in accents 
barely articulate, murmured: 

“ Bless me, oh, bless me ! ” while another word seemed 
struggling for utterance, but checked with an effort which 
caused it to die on his lips in indistinct murmurs. 

“ Bless thee, poor child ! from my very heart I do, if the 
blessing of one sorrowing and afflicted as myself can in 
aught avail thee. For thy faithfulness to thy master I bless 
thee, for it speaketh well for thee, and that face would bid 
me love and bless thee for thyself, I know not wherefore. 
Good angels keep and bless thee, gentle boy; thou hast Isa- 
bella’s prayers, and may they give thee peace.” 

“ Pray for me, aye, pray for me,” repeated the boy, in 
the same murmured tones. He clasped her hands in both 
his, he pressed them again and again to his lips, repeated 
sobs burst from his laboring breast, and then he sprung up, 
darted away, and stood at Sir Nigel’s side, just as the Earl 
of Hereford had commanded his men to wheel a little to the 
right, to permit the Countess of Buchan, her guards and 
officers, free passage over the drawbridge, and first entrance 
within the fortress. 

The brow of this noble son of chivalry darkened as, sit- 
ting motionless on his tall steed, his gaze rested on the noble 
woman whom it had originally been his painful charge 
to deliver over to his sovereign. He had not dreamed of 
a vengeance such as this. He could not have believed 
a change so dark as this had fallen on the character of a 
sovereign whom he still loved, still sought to admire and re- 
vere, and his spirit sunk ’neath the sorrow this conviction 
caused. Almost involuntarily, as the procession slowly pro- 
ceeded, and the countess passed within three paces of his 
horse’s head, he bent his lordly brow in silent homage; she 
saw it and returned it, more affected by the unfeigned com- 


262 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


miseration on that warrior’s face, than at aught which had 
occurred to shame and humble her that morning. 

A brief pause took place in the movements of the officers 
and their prisoners, when they reached the great hall of the 
castle. For a brief minute Lady Seaton and the Countess 
of Buchan had met, had clasped hands, in sad, yet eager 
greeting. “ My child, mine Agnes ? ” had been by the lat- 
ter hurriedly whispered, and the answer, “ Safe, I trust, 
safe,” just permitted to reach her ear, when roughly and 
fiercely the Earl of Berwick summoned the Lady of Buchan 
to proceed to the chamber appointed for her use. Those sim- 
ple words had, however, removed a load of anxiety from 
her mind, for they appeared to confirm what she had some- 
times permitted herself to hope, that Agnes had shared King 
Robert’s exile, under the care of Lady Campbell; prevailed 
on to do so, perchance, by the entreaties of Nigel, who in all 
probability had deemed that course, though one of hard- 
ship, less perilous than remaining with him. She hoped in- 
deed against her better judgment, for though she knew not 
the depth, the might of her daughter’s feelings, she knew 
it must have been a terrible trial so to part, and she ab- 
solutely shuddered when she thought of the whelming blow 
it would be to that young heart when the fate of her be- 
trothed was ascertained. 

Lady Seaton had spoken as she believed. No communi- 
cation had been permitted between the prisoners on their 
way to England; indeed, from Sir Christopher’s wounded 
and exhausted state, he had travelled more leisurely in a lit- 
ter, always in the rear of the earl’s detachment, and occu- 
pied by her close attendance upon him, his wife had scarcely 
been aware of the young page ever in attendance on her 
brother, or deemed him, if she did observe him, a retainer 
of Hereford’s own. There was so much of fearful peril and 
misery hovering over her in her husband’s fate, that it was 
not much wonder her thoughts lingered there more than on 
Agnes, and that she was contented to believe as she had 
spoken, that she at least was safe. 

Night fell on the town of Berwick. Silence and dark- 
ness had come on her brooding wings; the varied excite- 
ment of the day was now but a matter of wondering com- 
mune round the many blazing hearths, where the busy 
crowds of the morning had now gathered. Night came, 
with her closing pall, her softened memories, her sleeping 
visions, and sad waking dreams. She had come, alike to 
the mourned and mourner, the conqueror and his captive, the 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


263 


happy and the wretched. She had found the Earl of Ber- 
wick pacing up and down his stately chamber* his curtained 
couch unsought, devising schemes to lower the haughty 
pride of the gallant warrior whom he yet feared. She had 
looked softly within the room where that warrior lay, and 
found him, too, sleepless, but not from the same dark 
dreams. He grieved for his sovereign, for the fate of one 
noble spirit shrined in a woman’s form, and restless and 
fevered, turned again and again within his mind how he 
might save from a yet darker doom the gallant youth his 
arms had conquered. And not alone on them did night look 
down. She sent her sweet, reviving influence, on the rays 
of a bright liquid star, through the narrow casement which 
gave light to the rude unfurnished chamber where Sir 
Nigel Bruce and his attendant lay. They had not torn that 
poor faithful child from his side. Hereford’s last com- 
mands had been that they should not part them, and there 
they now lay; and sleep, balmy sleep had for them de- 
scended on the wings of night, hovering over that humble 
pallet of straw, when from the curtained couch of power, 
the downy bed of luxury, she fled. There they lay; but it 
was the boy who lay on the pallet of straw, his head pillowed 
by the arm of the knight, who sat on a wooden settle at his 
side. He had watched for a brief space those troubled slum- 
bers, but as they grew calmer and calmer, he had pressed 
one light kiss on the soft yielding cheek, and then leant his 
head on his breast, and he too slept — even in sleep tending 
one beloved. 

And in the dark, close sleeping-chamber within the 
prison cage of the noble Countess of Buchan, night too 
looked pityingly. Sleep indeed was not there; it had come 
and gone, for in a troubled slumber a dream had come of 
Agnes, and she had woke to think upon her child, and pray 
for her; and as she prayed, she thought of her promise to 
the poor boy who had so strangely moved her. She could 
not trace how one thought had sprung from the other, nor 
why in the darkness his features so suddenly flashed before 
her; but so it was. His face seemed to gleam upon her 
with the same strange, indefinable expression which, even at 
the time, had startled her; and then a sudden flash ap- 
peared to illuminate that darkness of bewilderment. She 
started up from her reclining posture; she pressed both 
hands on her throbbing eyeballs ; a wild, sickening yearning 
took possession of her whole soul; and then she felt, in its 
full bitterness, she was a chained and guarded prisoner; 


264 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


and the deep anguish of her spirit found vent in the con- 
vulsive cry: 

“Fool, fool that I was — my child! my child!” 


CHAPTER XXII. 

Leaving the goodly town of Berwick and its busy citi- 
zens, its castles and its prisoners, for a brief space, we must 
now transport our readers to a pleasant chamber overlook- 
ing the Eden, in the Castle of Carlisle, now a royal resi- 
dence; a fact which, from its numerous noble inmates, its 
concourse of pages, esquires, guards, and various other re- 
tainers of a royal establishment, the constant ingress and 
egress of richly-attired courtiers, the somewhat bustling, 
yet deferential aspect of the scene, a very cursory glance 
would have been all-sufficient to prove. 

It had been with a full determination to set all ob- 
stacles, even disease itself, at defiance, King Edward, some 
months before, had quitted Winchester, and directed his 
march toward the Horth, vowing vengeance on the rebel- 
lious and disaffected Scots, and swearing death alone should 
prevent the complete and terrible extermination of the trai- 
tors. He had proceeded in this spirit to Carlisle, disre- 
garding the threatened violence of disease, so sustained by 
the spirit of disappointed ambition within as scarcely to be 
conscious of an almost prostrating increase of weakness and 
exhaustion. He had determined to make a halt of some 
weeks at Carlisle, to wait the effect of the large armies he 
had sent forward to overrun Scotland, and to receive intelli- 
gence of the measures they had already taken. Here, then, 
disease, as if enraged that he should have borne up so long, 
that his spirit had mastered even her, convened the whole 
powers of suffering, and compelled him not alone to ac- 
knowledge, but to writhe beneath her sway. His whole 
frame was shaken ; intolerable pains took possession of him, 
and though the virulence of the complaint was at length so 
far abated as to permit him a short continuance of life, he 
could never sit his horse again, or even hope to carry on in 
his own person his plans for the total reduction of Scotland. 
But as his frame weakened, as he became the victim of al- 
most continual pain, all the darker and fiercer passions of 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


265 


his nature gained yet more fearful ascendency. The change 
had been some time gathering, but within the last twelve 
months its effects were such, that his noblest, most devoted 
knights, blind as their affection for his person rendered them, 
could scarce recognize in the bloodthirsty, ambitious tyrant 
they now beheld their gallant, generous, humane, and most 
chivalric sovereign, who had won golden opinions from all 
sorts and conditions of men; who had performed the duties 
of a son and husband so as to fix the eyes of all Europe on 
him in admiration; who had swayed the sceptre of his 
mighty kingdom with such a powerful and fearless hand, it 
had been long since England had acquired such weight in 
the scale of kingdoms. Wise, moderate, merciful even in 
strict justice as he had been, could it be that ambition had 
wrought such change; that disease had banished every feel- 
ing from his breast, save this one dark, fiend-like passion, 
for the furtherance of which, or in revenge of its disappoint- 
ment, noble blood flowed like water — the brave, the good, 
the young, the old, the noble and his follower, alike fell 
before the axe or the cord of the executioner? Could it in- 
deed be that Edward, once such a perfect, glorious scion of 
chivalry, had now shut up his heart against its every whis- 
per, lest it should interfere with his brooding visions of re- 
venge ; forgot each feeling, lest he should involuntarily sym- 
pathize with the noble and knightly spirit of the patriots of 
Scotland, whom he had sworn to crush ? Alas ! it was even 
so ; ruthless and tyrannical, the nobles he had once favored, 
once loved, now became odious to him, for their presence 
made him painfully conscious of the change within himself ; 
and he now associated but with spirits dark, fierce, cruel as 
his own — men he would once have shunned, have banished 
from his court, as utterly unworthy of his favor. 

It was, then, in a royally-furnished chamber, pleasantly 
overlooking the river Eden and the adjoining country, that 
about a week after the events narrated in the preceding 
chapter, King Edward reclined. His couch was softly and 
luxuriously cushioned, and not a little art had been expend- 
ed in the endeavor to lighten his sufferings, and enable him 
to rest at ease. The repeated contraction of his counte- 
nance, however, betrayed how impotent was even luxury 
when brought in contact with disease. The richly-furred 
and wadded crimson velvet robe could not conceal the atten- 
uation of his once peculiarly fine and noble form; his great 
length of limb, which had gained him, and handed down to 
posterity, the inelegant surname of Longshanks, rendered 


266 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


his appearance yet more gaunt and meagre; while his fea- 
tures, which once, from the benignity and nobleness of his 
character, had been eminently handsome, now pale, thin, 
and pointed, seemed to express but the one passion of his 
soul — its gratification of revenge. His expansive brow was 
now contracted and stern, rendered more so perhaps by the 
lack of hair about the temples; he wore a black velvet cap, 
circled coronet-wise with large diamonds, from which a 
white feather drooped to his shoulder. There was a slight, 
scarcely visible, sneer resting on his features that morning, 
called forth, perhaps by his internal scorn of the noble with 
whom he had deigned a secret conference; but the Earl of 
Buchan had done him good service, had ably forwarded his 
revenge, and he would not therefore listen to that still voice 
of scorn. 

“ Soh ! she is secure, and your desires on that head ac- 
complished, sir earl,” he said, in continuance of some sub- 
ject they had been discussing. “ Thou hast done us good 
service, and by mine honor, it would seem we have done 
your lordship the same.” 

“ Aye,” muttered the earl, whose dark features had not 
grown a whit more amiable since we last beheld him ; “ aye, 
we are both avenged.” 

“ How, sir ! darest thou place thyself on a par with me ? ” 
angrily retorted Edward ; “ thinkest thou the sovereign of 
England can have aught in common with such as thee? 
Isabella of Buchan, or of Fife, an thou likest that better, is 
debased, imprisoned, because she hath dared insult our per- 
son, defy our authority, to act treasonably and mischievous- 
ly, and sow dissension and rebellion amid our Scottish 
subjects — for this she is chastised; an it gratify your 
matrimonial revenge, I am glad on’t; but Edward of Eng- 
land brooks no equality with Comyn of Buchan, though it 
be but equality in revenge.” 

Buchan bent his knee, and humbly apologized. 

“ Well, well, let it be; thou hast served us too faithfully 
to be quarrelled with, for perchance unintentional irrever- 
ence. The imposition of her child’s murder, when he lives 
and is well, is the coinage of thine own brain, sir earl, and 
thou must reconcile it to thine own conscience. We hold 
ourselves exempt from all such peculiar mercy, for we scarce 
see its wisdom.” There was a slight bitterness in Edward’s 
tone. 

“ Wisdom, my sovereign liege, deemest thou there is 
no wisdom in revenge ? ” and the brow of the earl grew dark 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


267 


with passion, as he spoke. “ Have I naught to punish, 
naught to avenge in this foul traitress — naught, that her 
black treachery has extended to my son, my heir, even to his 
tender years? I would not have her death; no, let her live 
and feed on the belief that her example, her counsels have 
killed her own child ; that had it not been for her, he might 
have lived, been prosperous, aye, and happy now. Is there 
no wisdom in such revenge ? and if there be none, save that 
w T hich my own heart feels, I could give your grace another 
and a better reason for this proceeding.” 

“ Speak it, in St. George’s name,” replied the king; “ of 
a truth thou art of most clear conception in all schemes of 
vengeance. I might have thought long enough, ere I could 
have lighted on such as this. What more ? ” 

“ Simply, your grace, that by encouraging a little while 
the report of his death, his friends in Scotland will forget 
that he ever existed, and make no effort for his rescue; 
which belief, wild and unfounded as it is, I imagine sup- 
ports him in his strenuous determination to live and die a 
traitor to your highness. I have no hatred to the boy ; nay, 
an he would let me, could love and be proud of him, now his 
mother cannot cross my path, and would gladly see him de- 
voted, as myself, to the interests of your grace. Nor do I 
despair of this ; he is very young, and his character cannot 
be entirely formed. He will tire in time of dark and soli- 
tary confinement, and gladly accept any conditions I may 
offer.” 

“ Gives he any proof as yet of this yielding mood ? ” 

“ By mine honor, no, your highness ; he is firm and 
steadfast as the ocean rock.” 

“ Then wherefore thinkest thou he will change in time ? ” 
“ Because as yet, my gracious liege, the foul, treacherous 
principles of his mother have not ceased to work. An en- 
tire cessation of intercourse between them will show him 
his mistake at last, and this could never be, did she know 
he lived. Imprisoned, guarded as she is, she would yet 
find some means of communication with him, and all my 
efforts would be of no avail. Let a year roll by, and I will 
stake my right hand that Alan of Buchan becomes as firm a 
supporter and follower of King Edward as ever his father 
was. Is the boy more than mortal, and does your grace 
think life, liberty, riches, honors, will not weigh against 
perpetual imprisonment and daily thoughts of death ? ” 

So spoke the Earl of Buchan, judging, as most men, 
others by himself, utterly unable to comprehend the high, 
18 


268 


THE DAYS OE BRUCE. 


glorious, self-devoted, patriotic spirit of his noble son. 
He persevered in his course of fiend-like cruelty, excusing 
it to his own conscience, if he had any, by the belief it would 
end but in his son’s good — an end, indeed, he seldom 
thought of attaining; but there was something in the idea 
of a son, an heir, and one so prepossessing in appearance as 
Alan of Buchan, that touched his pride, the only point on 
which his flinty heart was vulnerable. 

“So thou thinkest, sir earl ? ” resumed the king, who 
perhaps in his own secret soul did not entirely think with 
him. “ Meanwhile the stripling may laugh thy parental 
care to scorn, by escaping from iron chains and stone walls, 
and seeking out the arch rebel Bruce, make up at the 
sword’s point for lost time. Beware, sir earl, an he be 
taken again thus in arms against us, even thy loyal services 
will not save his head ! ” 

“ I should not even ask your grace’s clemency,” replied 
the earl, his features assuming a fearful expression as he 
spoke. “ An he thus turned traitor again to his father’s 
house, spurning mine and your grace’s favor, to join the 
base murderer of his kinsman, he shall be no more to me 
than others, whose treason hath cost their heads ; but I have 
no fear of this. He cannot escape, guarded as he is, by 
alike the most ruthless and the most faithful of my fol- 
lowers; and while there, if all else fail, I will publish that 
he lives, but so poison the ears of his rebel Scottish friends 
against him, he will not, dare not join them, and in his own 
despite, will be compelled to act as befitting his father’s 
son. Trust me, my liege. To thy royal clemency I owe 
his life ; be it my duty, then, to instil into him other princi- 
ples than those which actuated him before.” 

“ But your own character, my lord, meanwhile, care ye 
naught for the stain supposed to rest upon it? Thy plans 
sound wise, and we thank thee for thy loyalty; but we 
would not ye burdened your name with a deed not its own, 
an ye cared for the world’s applause.” 

“Hot a whit, not a whit, your highness; countenanced 
by your grace’s favor, absolved in your opinion from the 
barbarity others charge me with, I care not for them. I 
have been too long mine own conscience-keeper to heed the 
whispers of the world,” he added, his dark brows knitting 
closer as he spoke. 

Edward smiled grimly. “ Be it so, then,” he said ; “ my 
Lord of Buchan, we understand each other. An that boy 
escapes and rejoins the traitors, and is taken, his head 


THE DAYS OF BEUCE. 


269 


answers for it. An ye succeed in making him loyal as 
yourself, as eager a pursuer of the murderous traitor, Bruce, 
we will give thee the palm for policy and wisdom in our 
court, ourself not excepted. And now another question; it 
was reported Isabella of Buchan joined the rebels’s court 
with her two children. Who and where is the second? we 
have heard but of one.” 

“ A puny, spiritless wench, as I have heard, my liege ; 
one little likely to affect your highness, and not worth the 
seeking.” 

“ Nay, an she hath her mother’s influence, we differ from 
thee, sir earl, and would rather see her within the walls of 
our court than in the traitor’s train. I remember not her 
name amid those taken with the Bruce’s wife. Hast in- 
quired aught concerning her ? ” 

“ Not I, your grace,” carelessly replied the earl; “of a 
truth, I had weightier thoughts than the detention or in- 
terest of a simple wench, who, if her mother has taught to 
forget me as her father, is not worth my remembering as a 
child.” 

“ I give you joy of your most fatherly indifference, sir 
earl,” answered the king, with an ill-suppressed sneer. “ It 
would concern you little if she takes unto herself a husband 
amid your foes; the rebel Bobert hath goodly brothers, and 
the feud between thy house and theirs may but impart a 
double enjoyment to the union.” 

The earl started, as if an adder had stung him. “ She 
dare not do this thing,” he said, fiercely ; “ she will not — 
she dare not. A thousand curses light upon her head even 
if she dreams it ! ” 

“ Nay, waste not thy breath in curses, good my lord, but 
up and prevent the very possibility of such a thing, an it 
move thee so deeply. I say not it is, but some such float- 
ing rumor has reached my ears, I can scarce trace how, save 
through the medium of our numerous prisoners.” 

“ But how obtain information — where seek her ? I pray 
you pardon me, your grace, but there are a thousand furies 
in the thought ! ” and scarcely could the consciousness of 
the royal presence restrain the rage which gathered on the 
swarthy features of the earl from finding vent in words. 

“ Nay, nay, my lord, let not your marvellous wisdom and 
sage indifference be so speedily at fault. An she be not in 
Margaret Bruce’s train, that goodly dame may give thee 
some information. Seek her, and may be thou wilt learn 
more of this wench than thou hast since her birth. In pity 


270 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


to this sudden interest, we grant thee permission to visit 
these partners of treason in their respective convents, and 
learn what thou canst; an she be within thy reach, be ad- 
vised, and find her a husband thyself, the best and most 
speedy means of eradicating her mother’s counsels.” 

Buchan’s reply was arrested on his lips by the entrance 
of the royal chamberlain, announcing that the Earl of Ber- 
wick had arrived in all haste from Berwick, and earnestly 
besought a few minutes’ audience with his sovereign. 

“ Berwick ! ” repeated Edward, half raising himself in 
his surprise from his reclining posture. “ Berwick ! what 
the foul fiend brings him from his post at such a time? 
Bid him enter ; haste, I charge thee.” 

His impatient command was speedily obeyed. The Earl 
of Berwick was close on the heels of the chamberlain, and 
now appeared, his lowly obeisance not concealing from the 
quick eye of his master that wrath, black as a thunder-cloud, 
was resting on his brow. 

“ How now,” said the king, “ what means this unseemly 
gear, sir earl ? thou must have neither rested spur nor slack- 
ened rein, methinks, an thy garb tell truth; and wherefore 
seekest thou our presence in such fiery haste? Wouldst 
thou be private? My Lord of Buchan, thou hadst best fol- 
low our counsel ere thy interest cools.” 

“ Nay, your grace, bid not yon noble earl depart to grant 
me hearing; I would speak before him, aye, and the whole 
court, were it needed. ’Tis but to lay the sword and mantle, 
with which your highness invested me as governor of the 
citadel of Berwick, at your grace’s feet, and beseech you 
to accept my resignation of the same.” With well-affected 
humility the Earl of Berwick unclasped his jewelled mantle, 
and kneeling down, laid it with his sheathed sword at King 
Edward’s feet, remaining on his knee. 

“ Art craven, fool, or traitor ? ” demanded Edward, when 
his astonishment permitted words. “ What means this ? 
Speak out, and instantly ; we are not wont to be thus trifled 
with. My Lord of Berwick, wherefore dost thou do this ? ” 

“ Not because I am a craven, good my liege,” replied the 
nobleman, still on his knee, “ for had I been so, King Ed- 
ward’s penetration would have discovered it ere he in- 
trusted me with so great a charge — nor because I am a wit- 
less fool, unconscious of the high honor I thus tamely re- 
sign — and not because I am a traitor, gracious sovereign, 
for ’tis from insult and interruption in the arrest of a blas- 
phemous traitor I am here.” 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


271 


“ Insult — interruption ! ” fiercely exclaimed the king, 
starting up. “ Who has dared — who loves his life so little 
as to do this. But speak on, speak on, we listen.” 

“ Pardon me, your highness, I came to tender my resig- 
nation, not an accusation,” resumed the wily earl, cautious- 
ly lashing his sovereign into fury, aware that it was much 
easier to gain what he wished in such moods than as he 
found him now. “ I came but to beseech your highness to 
resume that which your own royal hands had given me. 
My authority trampled upon, my loyalty insulted, my zeal 
in your grace’s service derided, my very men compelled, per- 
force of arms, to disobey me, and this by one high in your 
grace’s estimation, nay, connected with your royal self. 
Surely, my gracious liege, I do but right in resigning the 
high honor your highness bestowed. I can have little merit 
to retain it, and such things be.” 

“ But they shall not be, sir. As there is a God above 
us, they shall not be ! ” exclaimed the king, in towering 
wrath, and striking his hand on a small table of crystal 
near him with such violence as to shiver it to pieces. “ By 
heaven and hell ! they shall repent this, be it mine own son 
who hath been thus insolent. Speak out, I tell thee, as 
thou lovest thy life, speak out; drive me not mad by this 
cautiously- worded tale. Who hath dared trample on au- 
thority mine own hand and seal hath given? Who is the 
traitor ? Speak out, I charge thee ! ” and strengthened by 
his own passion, the king sate upright on his couch, clinch- 
ing his hand till the blood sprung, and fixing his dark, fiery 
eyes on the earl. It was the mood he had tried for, and now 
artfully and speciously, with many additions, he narrated 
all that had passed the preceding day in the castle-yard of 
Berwick. Fiercer and fiercer waxed the wrath of the king. 

“ Fling him in the lowest dungeon, load him with the 
heaviest fetters hands can force ! ” were the words first dis- 
tinguished, when passion permitted articulation. “ The vil- 
lain, the black-faced traitor ! it is not enough he hath dared 
raise arms against me, but he must beard me to the very 
teeth, defy me in my very palace, throw scorn upon me, 
maltreat an officer of mine own person! Is there no pun- 
ishment but death for this foul insolence! As there is a 
God in heaven, he shall feel my vengeance ere he reach the 
scaffold — feel it, aye, till death be but too welcome ! ” He 
sunk back, exhausted by his own violence ; but not a minute 
passed ere again he burst forth. “ And Hereford, the trai- 
tor Hereford, he dared defend him! dared assault thee in 


272 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


the pursuance of thy duty, the audacious insolent! Doth 
he think, forsooth, his work in Scotland will exempt him 
from the punishment of insolence, of treason? as an aider 
and abetter of treachery he shares its guilt, and shall know 
whom he hath insulted. Back to thy citadel, my Lord of 
Berwick, see to the strict incarceration of this foul branch 
of treachery, aye, and look well about ye, lest any seditious 
citizen or soldier hath, by look or word, given aught of 
encouragement, or failed in due respect to our proclamation. 
An Hereford abet the traitor, others may be but too willing 
to do the like. By Heaven, they shall share his fate ! Bid 
Hereford hither on the instant, say naught of having been 
beforehand with him; I would list the insolent’s own tale. 
Best thee a brief while, my lord, and our great seal shall in- 
sure thee prompt obedience. Bid Sir Edmund Stanley at- 
tend us, my Lord of Buchan. I need scarce warn a Comyn 
to be secret on what has passed; I would not have the foul 
insolence cast into our teeth as yet proclaimed. Begone, 
both of ye ; we would be a brief space alone.” 

The deadly pallor which had usurped the flush of fury 
on the monarch’s cheek afforded such strong evidence of a 
sharp renewal of his internal pains, that both noblemen hesi- 
tated to obey. The damp of agony stood upon his forehead 
a moment in large drops, then absolutely poured down his 
cheeks, while his gaunt frame shook with the effort to sup- 
press the groan which his throes wrung from him. Seizing 
a cordial near him, Buchan presented it on his knee, but 
Edward only waved them both away, angrily and impatient- 
ly pointing to the door. He loved not the weakness of an 
appalling disease to be witnessed by his courtiers. When 
utterly incapacitated from either the appearance or func- 
tions of the sovereign, he chose to be alone, his pride scarce- 
ly brooking even the cares of his young and beautiful wife, 
or the yet wiser and truer affection of his daughters. The 
effects of this interview will be seen in a future chapter. 


CHAPTEK XXIII. 

There was an expression of both sorrow and care on the 
fine and winning features of the Princess Joan, Countess of 
Gloucester, as she sat busied in embroidery in an apartment 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


273 


of Carlisle castle, often pausing to rest her head upon her 
hand, and glance out of the broad casement near which she 
sat, not in admiration of the placid scene which stretched 
beyond, but in the mere forgetfulness of uneasy thought. 
Long the favorite daughter of King Edward, perchance be- 
cause her character more resembled that of her mother, 
Queen Eleanor, than did either of her sisters, she had till 
lately possessed unbounded influence over him. Not only 
his affection but his pride was gratified in her, for he saw 
much of his own wisdom, penetration, and high sense of 
honor reflected upon her, far more forcibly than in his weak 
and yielding son. But lately, the change which had so 
painfully darkened the character and actions of her father 
had extended even to her. Her affection for a long time 
blinded her to this painful truth, but by slow degrees it 
became too evident to be mistaken, and she had wept many 
bitter tears, less perhaps for herself than for her father, 
whom she had almost idolized. His knightly qualities, his 
wisdom, the good he had done his country, all were treas- 
ured up by her and rejoiced in with never-failing delight. 
His reputation, his popularity, were dear to her, even as 
her noble husband’s. She had not only loved, she had rever- 
enced him as some superior being who had come but to do 
good, to leave behind him through succeeding ages an un- 
tarnished name, enshrined in such love, England would be 
long ere she spoke it without tears. And now, alas! she 
had outlived such dreams; her reverence, lingering still, 
had been impaired by deeds of blood; her pride in him 
crushed; naught but a daughter’s love remaining, which 
did but more strongly impress upon her heart the fatal 
change. And now the last blow was given ; he shunned her, 
scarcely ever summoned her to his presence, permitted the 
wife of a day to tend him in his sufferings, rather than the 
daughter of his former love, one hallowed by the memories 
of her mother, the beloved and faithful partner of his youth. 

It was not, however, these thoughts which entirely en- 
grossed her now not undivided sorrows. Her sister Eliza- 
beth, the Countess of Hereford, had just left her, plunged 
in the deepest distress, from the extraordinary fact that her 
husband, summoned seemingly in all amity by the king, had 
been arrested by the Lord Marshal of England as an aider 
and abetter of treason, and was now in strict confinement 
within the castle; not permitted to embrace his wife and 
children, whom he had not seen since his arrival from Scot- 
land, where he had so gallantly assisted the cause of Edward, 


274 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


and whence he had but just returned in triumph. No other 
cause was assigned saving having given countenance to trea- 
son and lese majeste , but that the irritation of the king had 
prohibited all hope of present pardon ; — she, Lady Hereford, 
though his own daughter, having been refused admission to 
his presence. Both the Earl and Countess of Gloucester 
had anxiously striven to comfort the anxious wife, conquer- 
ing their own fears to assure her that hers were groundless ; 
that though from some mysterious cause at present irritated, 
as they knew too well a trifle made him now, Hereford was 
too good and loyal a subject for the king to proceed to ex- 
tremities, whatever might have been his fault. Humors of 
the confusion at Berwick had indeed reached Carlisle, and 
it was to have them confirmed or denied, or connected with 
some appearance of veracity, the Earl of Gloucester had 
quitted the royal sisters, determining to use his influence 
wflth his sovereign, even to dare his wrath, for the release of 
Hereford, whose good services in Scotland deserved a some- 
what different recompense. Lady Hereford, too anxious 
and despairing to remain long in one place, soon departed 
to seek the youthful Margaret of France, her father’s beauti- 
ful wife, and beseech her influence with him, either for 
the pardon of her husband, or at least communication 
with him. 

It was these sad thoughts which engrossed the Princess 
Joan, and they lingered too on Hereford’s prisoner, the 
brave and noble Nigel, for both to her husband and herself 
he had been in his boyhood an object not only of interest 
but of love. His beauty, his extraordinary talents, had irre- 
sistibly attracted them; and yet scarcely could they now 
believe the youthful knight, with whose extraordinary 
valor not only Scotland but England rung, could be that 
same enthusiast boy. That he had been taken, was now a 
prisoner in Berwick Castle, on whom sentence of death 
sooner or later would be passed, brought conviction but too 
sadly to their hearts, and made them feel yet more bitterly 
their influence with Edward was of no account. 

“Hast thou succeeded, Gilbert? Oh, say that poor 
Elizabeth may at least be permitted access to her husband,” 
was the countess’s eager salutation to her husband, as he 
silently approached her. He shook his head sorrowfully. 

“ Alas ! not even this. Edward is inexorable, possessed 
by I know not what spirit of opposition and wrath, furious- 
ly angered against Hereford, to the utter forgetfulness of 
all his gallant deeds in Scotland.” 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


275 


“ But wherefore ? What can have chanced in this brief 
period to occasion this? but a few days since he spoke of 
Hereford as most loyal and deserving.” 

“ Aye, that was on the news of Kildrummie’s surrender ; 
now forgotten, from anger at a deed which but a few years 
back he would have been the first to have admired. That 
rash madman, Nigel Bruce, hath not only trebly sealed his 
own fate, but hurled down this mishap on his captor,” and 
briefly he narrated all he had learned. 

“ It was, indeed, a rash action, Gilbert ; yet was it alto- 
gether unnatural ? Alas, no ! the boy had had no spark of 
chivalry or patriotism about him, had he stood tamely by; 
and Gloucester,” she added, with bitter tears, “years back 
would my father have given cause for this — would he 
thus have treated an unhappy woman, thus have added in- 
sult to misery, for an act which, shown to other than his 
rival, he would have honored, aye, not alone the deed, but 
the doer of it? If we, his own children, feel ashamed and 
indignant at this cruelty, oh, what must be the feelings 
of her countrymen, her friends ? ” 

“ Then thou believest not the foul slander attached to 
the Countess of Buchan, my Joan?” 

“ Believe it ! ” she answered, indignantly ; “ who that 
has looked on that noble woman’s face can give it the small- 
est credence? No, Gilbert, no. ’Tis published by those 
base spirits so utterly incapable of honor, knighthood, and 
patriotism themselves, that they cannot conceive these 
qualities in others, particularly in a female breast, and 
therefore assign it to motives black as the hearts which 
thought them; and even if it were true, is a kingly con- 
queror inflicting justice for treason against himself, to as- 
sign other motives for that justice? Doth he not lower 
himself — his own cause ? ” 

“ Alas, yes ! ” replied her husband, sorrowfully ; “ he 
hath done his character more injury by this last act than 
any which preceded. Though men might wish less blood 
were shed, yet still, traitors taken in arms against his person 
justice must condemn; but a woman, a sad and grieving 
woman — but do not weep thus, my gentle wife,” he added, 
tenderly. 

“ Can a daughter of Edward do other than weep, my 
husband? Oh, if I loved him not, if my very spirit did not 
cling round him so closely that the fibres of both seem en- 
twined, and his deeds of wrath, of exacting justice, fall on 
me as if I had done them, and overwhelm me with their 


276 


THE DAYS OF BKUCE. 


shame, their remorse, then indeed I might not weep; but 
as it is, do not chide me, Gilbert, for weep I must.” 

“ Thou art too noble-hearted, Joan,” he said, kindly, as 
he circled her waist with his arm, “ only too noble-hearted 
for these fearful times. ’Tis but too sad a proof of the 
change in thy royal father, that he shuns thy presence now 
even as he once loved it.” 

A confusion in the passage and ante-room disturbed 
their converse, and Gloucester turned toward the door to 
inquire the cause. 

“ ’Tis but a troublesome boy, demanding access to her 
highness the countess, my lord,” was the reply. “ I have 
asked his name and business, questions he deigns not, for- 
sooth, to answer, and looks so wild and distracted, that I 
scarce think it accords with my duty to afford him admit- 
tance. He is no fit recipient of my lady’s bounty, good my 
lord ; trust me, he will but fright her.” 

“ I have no such fear, my good Baldwin,” said the prin- 
cess, as, on hearing her name, she came forward to the 
centre of the chamber ; “ thou knowest my presence is 
granted to all who seek it : an this poor child seems so wild 
he is the fitter object of my care. They are using violence 
methinks; give him entrance instantly.” 

The attendant departed, and returned in a very brief 
space, followed by a lad, whose torn and muddy garments, 
haggard features, and dishevelled hair indeed verified the 
description given. He glanced wildly round him a moment, 
and then flinging himself at the feet of the princess, clasped 
her robe and struggled to say something, of which the words 
“ mercy, protection,” were alone audible. 

“ Mercy, my poor child ! what mercy dost thou crave ? 
Protection I may give thee, but how may I show thee 
mercy ? ” 

“ Grant me but a few moments, lady : let me but speak 
with thee alone. I bear a message which I may not deliver to 
other ears save thine,” said or rather gasped the boy, for he 
breathed with difficulty, either from exhaustion or emotion. 

“ Alone ! ” replied the countess, somewhat surprised. 
“ Leave us, Baldwin,” she added, after a moment’s pause. 
“ I am privately engaged for the next hour, denied to all, 
save his grace the king.” He withdrew, with a respectful 
bow. “ And now, speak, poor child, what wouldst thou ? 
Hay, I hear nothing which my husband may not hear,” she 
said, as the eyes of her visitor gazed fearfully on the earl, 
who was looking at him with surprise. 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


277 


“ Thy husband, lady — the Earl of Gloucester ? oh, it was 
to him too I came; the brother-in-arms of my sovereign, 
one that showed kindness to — to Sir Nigel in his youth, ye 
will not, ye will not forsake him now ? ” 

Few and well-nigh inarticulate as were those broken 
words, they betrayed much which at once excited interest in 
both the earl and countess, and told the reason of the lad’s 
earnest entreaty to see them alone. 

“ Forsake him ! ” exclaimed the earl, after carefully ex- 
amining that the door was closed ; “ would to Heaven I 
could serve him, free him! that there was but one slender 
link to lay hold of, to prove him innocent and give him life, 
I would do it, did it put my own head in jeopardy.” 

“ And is there none, none ? ” burst wildly from the 
boy’s lips, as he sprung from his knees, and grasped con- 
vulsively the earl’s arm. “ Oh, what has he done that they 
should slay him? why do they call him guilty? He was 
not Edward’s subject, he owed him no homage, no service, 
he has but fought to free his country, and is there guilt 
in this ? Oh, no, no, save him, in mercy save him ! ” 

“ Thou knowest not what thou askest, boy, how wholly, 
utterly impossible it is to save him. He hath hurled down 
increase of anger on his own head by his daring insult of 
King Edward’s herald; had there been hope before there is 
none now.” 

A piercing cry escaped the boy, and he would have fallen 
had he not been supported by the countess ; he looked at her 
pitying face, and again threw himself at her feet. 

“ Canst thou not, wilt thou not save him ? ” he cried ; 
“ art thou not the daughter of Edward, his favorite, his 
dearly beloved, and will he not list to thee — will he not 
hear thy pleadings? Oh, seek him, kneel to him as I to 
thee, implore his mercy — life, life, only the gift of life; 
sentence him to exile, perpetual exile, what he will, only let 
him live: he is too young, too good, too beautiful to die. 
Oh! do not look as if this could not be. He has told me 
how you both loved him, not that I should seek ye. It is 
not at his request I come; no, no, no, he spurns life, if it 
be granted on conditions. But they have torn me from 
him, they have borne him to the lowest dungeon, they have 
loaded him with fetters, put him to the torture. I would 
have clung to him still, but they spurned me, trampled on 
me, cast me forth — to die, if I may not save him! Wilt 
thou not have mercy, princess? daughter of Edward, oh, 
save him, save him ! ” 


278 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


It is impossible in the above incoherent words to convey 
to the reader even a faint idea of the agonized wildness with 
which they were spoken; the impression of unutterable 
misery they gave to those who listened to them, and marked 
their reflection in the face of the speaker. 

“ Fetters — the lowest dungeon — torture,” repeated Glou- 
cester, pacing up and down with disordered steps. “ Can 
these things be? merciful Heaven, how long hath England 
fallen ! Boy, boy, can it be thou speakest truth ? ” 

“ As there is a God above, it is truth ! 99 he answered, 
passionately. “ Oh, canst thou not save him from this ? is 
there no justice, no mercy? Rise — no, no; wherefore 
should I rise ? ” he continued, clinging convulsively to the 
knees of the princess, as she soothingly sought to raise him. 
“ I will kneel here till thou hast promised to plead for him 
with thy royal father, promised to use thine influence for 
his life. Oh, canst thou once have loved him and yet hesi- 
tate for this ? ” 

“ I do not, I would not hesitate, unhappy boy,” replied 
the princess, tenderly. “ God in heaven knows, were there 
the slenderest chance of saving him, I would kneel at my 
father’s feet till pardon was obtained, but angered as he is 
now it would irritate him yet more. Alas ! alas ! poor child, 
they told thee wrong who bade thee come to Joan for in- 
fluence with Edward ; I have none now, less than any of his 
court,” and the large tears fell from the eyes of the princess 
on the boy’s upturned face. 

“ Then let me plead for him ; give me access to Edward. 
Oh, I will so beseech, conjure him, he cannot, he will not say 
me nay. Oh, if his heart be not of steel, he will have mercy 
on our wretchedness; he will pardon, he will spare my hus- 
band ! ” 

The sob with which that last word was spoken shook that 
slight frame, till it bowed to the very ground, and the 
supporting arm of the countess alone preserved her from 
falling. 

“ Thy husband ! — Gracious heaven ! who and what art 
thou ? ” exclaimed the earl, springing toward her, at the 
same instant that his wife raised her in her arms, and laid 
her on a couch beside them, watching with the soothing ten- 
derness of a sister, till voice and strength returned. 

“ Alas ! I feared there was more in this deep agony than 
we might see,” she said ; “ but I imagined not, dared not 
imagine aught like this. Poor unhappy sufferer, the saints 
be praised thou hast come to me! thy husband’s life I may 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


279 


not save, but I can give protection, tenderness to thee — aye 
weep, weep, there is life, reason in those tears.” 

The gentle voice of sympathy, of kindness, had come 
upon that overcharged heart, and broke the icy agony which 
had closed it to the relief of tears. Mind and frame were 
utterly exhausted, and Agnes buried her face in the hands 
of the princess, which she had clasped convulsively within 
both hers, and wept, till the wildness of agony indeed de- 
parted, but not the horrible consciousness of the anguish yet 
to come. Gradually her whole tale was imparted : from the 
resolution to follow her betrothed even to England, and 
cling to him to the last; the fatal conclusion of that rite 
which had made them one; the anxiety and suffering which 
had marked the days spent in effecting a complete disguise, 
ere she could venture near him and obtain Hereford’s con- 
sent to her attending him as a page ; the risks and hardships 
which had attended their journey to Berwick, till even a 
prison seemed a relief and rest ; and then the sudden change, 
that a few days previous, the Earl of Berwick had entered 
Sir Nigel’s person, at the head of five or ten ruffians, had 
loaded him with fetters, conveyed him to the lowest and 
filthiest dungeon, and there had administered the torture, 
she knew not wherefore. Her shriek of agony had betrayed 
that she had followed them, and she was rudely and forcibly 
dragged from him, and thrust from the fortress. Her brain 
had reeled, her senses a brief while forsaken her, and when 
she recovered, her only distinct thought was to find her way 
to Carlisle, and there obtain access to the Earl and Countess 
of Gloucester, of whom her husband had spoken much dur- 
ing their journey to England, not with any wish or hope of 
obtaining mercy through their influence, but simply as the 
friends of former years; he had spoken of them to while 
away the tedious hours of their journey, and besought her, 
if she should be parted from him on their arrival at Berwick, 
to seek them, and implore their protection till her strength 
was restored. Of herself, however, in thus seeking them, she 
had thought not ; the only idea, the only thought clearly con- 
nected in her mind was to beseech their influence with Ed- 
ward in obtaining her husband’s pardon. Misery and anx- 
iety, in a hundred unlooked-for shapes, had already shown 
the fallacy of those dreams which in the hour of peril had 
strengthened her, and caused her to fancy that when once 
his wife she not only might abide by him, but that she 
might in some manner obtain his liberation. She did not, 
indeed, lament her fate was joined to his — lament! she 


280 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


could not picture herself other than she was, by her hus- 
band’s side, but she felt, how bitterly felt, she had no power 
to avert his fate. Despair was upon her, cold, black, clinging 
despair, and she clung to the vain dream of imploring Ed- 
ward’s mercy, feeling at the same moment it was but the 
ignis fatui to her heart — urging, lighting, impelling her on, 
but to sink in pitchy darkness when approached. 

Gradually and painfully this narrative of anguish was 
drawn from her lips, often unconnectedly, often incoherent- 
ly, but the earl and countess heard enough to fill their hearts 
alike with pity and respect for the deep, unselfish love un- 
consciously revealed. She had told, too, her maiden name, 
had conjured them to conceal her from the power of her 
father, at whose very name she shuddered; and both those 
noble hearts shared her anxiety, sympathized in her an- 
guish; and speedily she felt, if there could be comfort in 
such deep wretchedness, she had told her tale to those ready 
and willing, and able to bestow it. 

The following day the barons sat in judgment on Sir 
Nigel Bruce, and Gloucester was obliged to join them. It 
was useless, both he and the Princess felt, to implore the 
king’s mercy till sentence was passed ; alas ! it was useless at 
any time, but it must have been a colder and harder heart 
than the Princess Joan’s to look upon the face of Agnes, and 
yet determine on not even making one effort in his favor. 
At first the unhappy girl besought the earl to permit her ac- 
companying him back to Berwick, to attend her husband on 
his trial ; but on his proving it would but be uselessly har- 
rowing the feelings of both, for it would not enable her to go 
back with him to prison, that it would be better for her to re- 
main under the protection of the countess, endeavoring to 
regain strength for whatever she might have to encounter, 
either to accompany him to exile, if grace were indeed grant- 
ed, or to return to her friends in Scotland, she yielded 
mournfully, deriving some faint degree of comfort in the 
earl’s assurance that she should rejoin her husband as soon as 
possible, and the countess’s promise that if she wished it, she 
should herself be witness of her interview with Edward. It 
was indeed poor comfort, but her mind was well-nigh 
wearied out with sorrow, as if incapable of bearing more, 
and she acquiesced from very exhaustion. 

The desire that she herself should conjure the mercy of 
Edward had been negatived even to her anxious heart by the 
assurance of both the earl and the princess, that instead of 
doing good to her husband’s cause she would but sign her 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


281 


own doom, perchance be consigned to the power of her fa- 
ther, and be compelled to relinquish the poor consolation of 
being with her husband to the last. It was better she should 
retain the disguise she had assumed, adopting merely in ad- 
dition the dress of one of the princess’s own pages, a meas- 
ure which would save her from all observation in the palace, 
and give her admittance to Sir Nigel, perchance, when as 
his own attendant it would be denied. 

The idea of rejoining her husband would have rec- 
onciled Agnes to anything that might have been pro- 
posed, and kneeling at the feet of her protectress, she strug- 
gled to speak her willingness and blessing on her goodness, 
but her tongue was parched, her lips were mute, and the 
princess turned away, for her gentle spirit could not read 
unmoved the silent thankfulness of that young and break- 
ing heart. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 


It would be useless to linger on the trial of Nigel Bruce, 
in itself a mockery of justice, as were all those which had 
preceded, and all that followed it. The native nobility of 
Scotland were no subjects of the King of England; they 
owed him homage, perchance, for land held in England, but 
on flocking to the standard of the Bruce these had at once 
been voluntarily forfeited, and they fought but as Scottish 
men determined to throw off the yoke of a tyrant whose 
arms had overrun a land to which he had no claim. They 
fought for the freedom of a country, for their own liberty, 
and therefore were no traitors; but these facts availed not 
with the ruthless sovereign, to whom opposition was treason. 
The mockery of justice proceeded, it gave a deeper impres- 
sion, a graver solemnity to their execution, and therefore for 
not one of his prisoners was the ceremony dispensed with. 
Sir Christopher Seaton had been conveyed to the Tower, 
with his wife, under pretence of there waiting till his 
wounds were cured, to abide his trial, and in that awful hour 
Sir Nigel stood alone. Yet he was undaunted, for he 
feared not death even at the hangman’s hand ; his spirit was 
at peace, for he was innocent of sin — unbowed, for he was 
no traitor — he was a patriot warrior still. Pale he was, in- 
deed, ashy pale, but it told a tale of intense bodily anguish. 


282 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


They had put him to the torture, to force from his lips the 
place of his brother’s retreat, that being the only pretence on 
which the rage of Edward and the malice of Berwick could 
rest for the infliction of their cruelty. They could drag 
naught from his lips; they could not crush that exalted 
soul, or compel it to utter more than a faint, scarcely articu- 
late groan, as proof that he suffered, that the beautiful 
frame was well-nigh shattered unto death. And now he 
stood upright, unshrinking; and there were hearts amid 
those peers inwardly grieving at their fell task, gazing on 
him with unfeigned admiration; while others gloried that 
another obstacle to their sovereign’s schemes of ambition 
would be removed, finding, perchance, in his youth, beauty, 
and noble bearing, from their contrast with themselves, but 
fresh incentives to the doom of death, and determining, 
even as they sate and scowled on him, to aggravate the bit- 
terness of that doom with all the ignominy that cruelty 
could devise. 

He had listened in stern silence to the indictment, and 
evinced no sign of emotion even when, in the virulence of 
some witnesses against him, the most degrading epithets 
were lavished on himself, his family, and friends. Only 
once had his eye flashed fire and his cheek burned, and his 
right hand unconsciously sought where his weapon should 
have hung, when his noble brother was termed a ribald 
assassin, an excommunicated murderer; but quickly he 
checked that natural emotion, and remained collected as 
before. He was silent till the usual question was asked, “ If 
he had anything to say why sentence of death should not 
be pronounced upon him ? ” and then he made a step for- 
ward, looked boldly and sternly around him, and spoke, in 
a rich, musical voice, the following brief, though emphatic 
words : 

“ Ye ask me if I could say aught why sentence of death 
should not be pronounced. Hobles of England, in denying 
the charge of treason with which ye have indicted me, I 
have said enough. Before ye, aye, before your sovereign, I 
have done nothing to merit death, save that death which a 
conqueror bestows on his captive, when he deems him too 
powerful to live. The death of a traitor I protest against; 
for to the King of England I am no subject, and in conse- 
quence no traitor! I have but done that which every true 
and honorable man must justify, and in justifying respect. 
I have sought with my whole heart the liberty of my coun- 
try, the interest of my lawful sovereign, and will die assert- 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


283 


ing the honor and justice of my cause, even as I have lived. 
I plead not for mercy, for were it offered, on condition of 
doing homage unto Edward, I would refuse it, and choose 
death; protesting to the last that Robert Bruce, and he 
alone, is rightful king of Scotland. My lords, in condemn- 
ing me to death as a captive taken in war, ye may be justi- 
fied by the law of battles, I dispute not the justice of your 
doom; but an ye sentence me as traitor, I do deny the 
charge, and say my condemnation is unjust and foul, and ye 
are perjured in its utterance. I have said. Now let your 
work proceed.” 

He folded his arms on his breast, and awaited in un- 
broken silence his doom. A brief pause had followed his 
words. The Earl of Gloucester, who, from his rank and 
near connection with the king, occupied one of the seats of 
honor at the upper end of the large hall, and had, during 
the trial, vainly sought to catch the prisoner’s eye, now re- 
clined back on his seat, his brow resting on his hand, his 
features completely concealed by the dark drapery of his 
cloak. In that position he remained, not only during the 
pause, but while the fatal sentence was pronounced. 

“ By the laws of your country, and the sentence of your 
peers,” so it ran, “ you, Nigel Bruce, by manifold acts of 
rebellion, disaffection, and raising up arms against your 
lawful king, Edward, the sovereign of England and Scot- 
land, and all the realms, castles, and lordships thereto per- 
taining, are proved guilty of high treason and lese majeste , 
and are thereby condemned to be divested of all symbols 
of nobility and knighthood, which you have disgraced; to 
be dragged on a hurdle to the common gibbet, and there 
hung by the neck till you are dead; your head to be cut 
off ; your body quartered and exposed at the principal towns 
as a warning to the disaffected and the traitorous of all 
ranks in either nation, and this is to be done at whatsoever 
time the good pleasure of our sovereign lord the king may 
please to appoint. God save King Edward, and so perish 
all his foes ! ” 

Not a muscle of the prisoner’s face had moved during 
the utterance of this awful sentence. He had glanced fear- 
lessly around him to the last, his eye resting on the figure of 
the Earl of Gloucester with an expression of pitying com- 
miseration for a moment, as if he felt for him, for his deep 
regret in his country’s shame, infinitely more than for him- 
self. Proudly erect he held himself, as they led him in 
solemn pomp from the great hall of the castle, across the 
19 


284 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


court to the dungeons of the condemned, gazing calmly and 
unflinchingly on the axe, which carried with its edge toward 
him proclaimed him condemned, though his doom was more 
ignominious than the axe bestowed. There was a time 
when he had shrunk from the anticipated agony of a degra- 
dation so complete as this — but not now; his spirit was al- 
ready lifted up above the horrors and humiliations of earth. 
But one dream of this world remained — one sad, sweet 
dream clung to his heart, and bound it with silver chains 
below. Where was that gentle being? He fondly hoped 
she had sought the friends of his boyhood, as he had im- 
plored her, should they be parted; he strove to realize com- 
fort in the thought they would protect and save her the 
agony of a final parting; but he strove in vain. One wild 
yearning possessed him, to gaze upon her face, to fold her 
to his heart once, but once again : it was the last lingering 
remnant of mortality; he had not another thought of life 
but this, and this grew stronger as its hope seemed vain. 
But there was one near to give him comfort, when he ex- 
pected it not. 

Wrapped so closely in his dark, shrouding mantle that 
naught but the drooping feather of his cap could be dis- 
tinguished, the Earl of Gloucester drew near the prisoner, 
and as he paused, ere the gates and bars of the prison en- 
trance could be drawn back, whispered hurriedly yet em- 
phatically : 

“A loved one is safe and shall be so. Would to God I 
could do more.” 

Suppressing with extreme difficulty a start of relief and 
surprise, the young nobleman glanced once on Gloucester's 
face, pressed his hands together, and answered, in the same 
tone : 

“ God in heaven bless thee ! I would see her once, only 
once more, if it can be without danger to her; it is life's 
last link, I cannot snap it — parted thus.'' They hurried 
him through the entrance with the last word lingering on 
his lips, and before Gloucester could make even a sign of 
reply. 

Early in the evening of the same day, King Edward was 
reclining on his couch, in the chamber we have before de- 
scribed, and, surrounded by some few of his favorite noble- 
men, appeared so animated by a new cause of excitement 
as to be almost unconscious of the internal pains which 
even at that moment were more than usually intense. His 
courtiers looked on unconcernedly while, literally shaking 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


285 


with disease and weakness, he coolly and deliberately traced 
those letters which gave a base and ignominious death to 
one of the best, the noblest, loveliest spirits that ever walked 
the earth, and signed the doom of misery and madness to 
another ; and yet no avenging hand stretched forth between 
him and his victim, no pang was on his heart to bid him 
pause, be merciful, and spare. Oh, what would this earth 
be were it all in all, and what were life if ending in the 
grave? Faith, thou art the crystal key opening to the spirit 
the glorious vision of immortality, bidding the trusting 
heart, when sick and weary of the dark deeds and ruthless 
spoilers of this lovely earth, rest on thy downy wings, and 
seek for peace and comfort there. 

“ Who waits ? ” demanded the king, as his pen ceased in 
its task. 

“ Sir Stephen Fitzjohn, my liege, sent by the Earl of 
Berwick with the warrant, for which he waits.” 

“He need wait no longer then, for it is there. Two 
hours before noon the traitor dies; we give him grace 
till then, that our good subjects of Berwick may take warn- 
ing by his fate, and our bird in the cage witness the end of 
the gallant so devoted to her cause. Bid the knight begone, 
my Lord of Arundel ; he hath too long waited our pleasure. 
Ha ! whom have, we here ? who craves admittance thus loud- 
ly ? ” he added, observing, as the earl lifted the hangings to 
depart, some bustle in the ante-room. “ Who is it so boldly 
demanding speech with us ? ” 

“ Her Highness the Princess J oan, Countess of Glou- 
cester, please you, my liege,” replied the chamberlain ; “ she 
will not take denial.” 

“ Is it so hard a thing for a daughter to gain admittance 
to a father, even though he be a sovereign ? ” interrupted 
the princess, who, attended only by a single page bear- 
ing her train, advanced within the chamber, her firm and 
graceful deportment causing the lords to fall back on 
either side, and give her passage, though the expression of 
their monarch’s countenance denoted the visit was unwel- 
come. 

“ Humbly and earnestly I do beseech your grace’s pardon 
for this over-bold intrusion,” she said, bending one knee 
before him ; “ but indeed my business could not be delayed. 
My liege and father, grant me but a few brief minutes. Oh, 
for the sake of one that loved us both, the sainted one now 
gone to heaven, for the memory of whom thou didst once 
bless me with fonder love than thou gavest to my sisters, 


286 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


because my features bore her stamp, my king, my father, 
pardon me and let me speak ! ” 

“ Speak on,” muttered the king, passing his hand over 
his features, and turning slightly from her, if there were 
emotion, to conceal it. “ Thou hast, in truth, been over- 
bold, yet as thou art here, speak on. What wouldst thou ? ” 

“ A boon, a mighty boon, most gracious father ; one 
only thou canst grant, one that in former years thou wouldst 
have loved me for the asking, and blessed me by fulfil- 
ment,” she said, as she continued to kneel; and by her be- 
seeching voice and visible emotion effectually confining the 
attention of the courtiers, now assembled in a knot at the 
farther end of the apartment, and preventing their noticing 
the deportment of the page who had accompanied her; he 
was leaning against a marble pillar which supported the 
canopy raised over the king’s couch, his head bent on his 
breast, the short, thick curls which fell over his forehead, 
concealing his features. His hands, too, crossed on his 
breast, convulsively clinched the sleeves of his doublet, as 
if to restrain the trembling which, had any one been suffi- 
ciently near, or even imagined him worthy of a distant 
glance, must have been observable pervading his whole 
frame. 

“ A boon,” repeated the king, as the princess paused, al- 
most breathless with her own emotion ; “ a mighty boon ! 
What can the Countess of Gloucester have to ask of me, 
that it moves her thus ? Are we grown so terrible that even 
our own children tremble ere they speak? What is this 
mighty boon? We grant not without hearing.” 

“ ’Tis the boon of life, my liege, of life thou canst bestow. 
Oh, while in this world thou rulest, vicegerent of the King 
of kings on high, combining like Him, justice and mercy, in 
the government of his creatures, oh! like Him, let mercy 
predominate over justice; deprive not of life, in the bloom, 
the loveliness of youth! Be merciful, my father, oh, be 
merciful! forgive as thou wouldst be forgiven — grant me 
the life I crave ! ” 

Urged on by emotion, the princess had scarcely heard 
the suppressed interjection of the king which her first words 
had occasioned, and she scarcely saw the withering stern- 
ness which gathered on his brow. 

“ Thou hast in truth learnt oratory, most sapient daugh- 
ter,” he said, bitterly ; “ thou pleadest well and flowingly, 
yet thou hast said not for whom thou bearest this marvel- 
lous interest — it can scarce be for a traitor? Methinks the 


THE DAYS OF BKUCE. 


287 


enemies of Edward should be even such unto his chil- 
dren.” 

“ Yet ’tis for one of these mistaken men I plead, most 
gracious sovereign,” resumed Joan, intimidated not by his 
sarcasm. “ Oh, my father, the conqueror’s triumph consists 
not in the number of rebellious heads that fall before him — 
not in the blood that overflows his way; magnanimity, 
mercy, will conquer yet more than his victorious sword. 
Traitor as he seem, have mercy on Nigel Bruce; oh, 
give ” 

“ Mercy on a Bruce ! May the thunder of heaven blast 
me when I show it ! ” burst furiously from Edward’s lips, as 
he started upon his couch and gazed on his suppliant child 
with eyes that seemed absolutely to blaze in wrath. “ Mercy 
on a branch of that house which has dared defy me, dared 
to insult my power, trample on my authority, upraised the 
standard of rebellion, and cost me the lives of thousands of 
my faithful subjects! Mercy on him, the daring traitor, 
who, even in his chains, has flung redoubled insult and 
treason into our very teeth ! Mercy — may the God of 
heaven deny me all mercy when I show it unto him ! ” 

“ Oh, no, no, my father ! My father, in mercy speak 
not such terrible words ! ” implored the princess, clinging 
to his robe. “ Call not the wrath of Heaven on thy head ; 
think of his youth, the temptations that have beset him, the 
difficult task to remain faithful when all other of his house 
turned astray. Mistaken as he hath been, as he is, have 
mercy. Compel him to prove, to feel, to acknowledge thou 
art not the tyrant he hath been taught to deem thee; exile, 
imprisonment, all — anything, but death. Oh, do not turn 
from me; be thyself, the good, the magnanimous Edward 
of former days, have mercy on thy foe ! ” 

“ I tell thee, never ! by every saint in heaven, I tell thee, 
never ! ” shouted the king. “ I will hear no more ; begone, 
lest I deem my own child part and parcel of the treasons 
formed against me. Trouble me not with these vain pray- 
ers. I will not pardon, I have sworn it; begone, and learn 
thy station better than to plead for traitors. Thy husband 
braved me once; beware, lest in these pleadings I hear his 
voice again. I tell him and thee that ere to-morrow’s noon 
be passed the soul of Nigel Bruce shall stand in judgment ; 
not another day, not another hour he lives to blast me with 
the memory of his treason. The warrant hath been signed, 
and is on its way to Berwick, to give his body to the hang- 
man and his soul to Satan — his death is sealed.” 


288 


THE DAYS OF BEUCE. 


“ Oh, no, no, no ! ” shrieked a voice of sudden anguish, 
startling all who heard, and even Edward, by its piteous 
tones, and the form of a page suddenly fell prostrate before 
the monarch. “ Mercy, mercy ! for the love of God, have 
mercy ! ” he struggled to articulate, but there was no sound 
save a long and piercing shriek, and the boy lay senseless on 
the ground. 

“ Ha ! by St. George, beardest thou me with traitors in 
my very palace, before my very eyes ? ” exclaimed the angry 
monarch, as his astonished courtiers gathered round. “ Put 
him in ward ; away with him, I say ! ” 

“ Pardon me, your highness, but this is needless,” inter- 
posed the princess, with a calm majesty, that subdued even 
the irritation of her father, and undauntedly waving back 
the courtiers, although perfectly sensible of the imminent 
danger in which she was placed. “ If there be blame, let it 
be visited on me; this poor child has been ill and weakly 
from many causes, terrified, almost maddened, by sounds, 
and sights of blood. I deemed him perfectly recovered, or 
he had not attended me here. I pray your grace permit his 
removal to my apartments.” 

The king laid a heavy hand on his daughter’s arm as she 
stood beside him, and fixed a gaze on her face that would 
have terrified any less noble spirit into a betrayal of the 
truth; but firm in her own integrity, in her own generous 
purpose, she calmly and inquiringly returned his gaze. 

“ Go to, thou art a noble wench, though an over-bold 
and presuming one,” he said, in a much mollified tone, for 
there was that in the dauntless behavior of his daughter 
which found an echo in his heart even now, deadened as it 
was to aught of gentle feeling, and he was glad of this in- 
terruption to entreaties which, resolved not to grant, had 
lashed him into fury, while her presence made him feel 
strangely ashamed. “ Do as thou wilt with thine own at- 
tendants ; but be advised, tempt not thine own safety again ; 
thou hast tried us sore with thy ill-advised entreaties, but 
we forgive thee, on condition they are never again renewed. 
Speak not, we charge thee. What ho ! Sir Edmund Stan- 
ley,” he called aloud, and the chamberlain appeared at the 
summons. “ Here, let this boy be carefully raised and 
borne according to the pleasure of his mistress. See, too, 
that the Countess of Gloucester be conducted with due re- 
spect to her apartments. Begone ! ” he added, sternly, as 
the eyes of Joan still seemed to beseech mercy; “ I will hear 
no more — the traitor dies ! ” 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


289 


CHAPTER XXV. 

The shades of advancing night had already appeared to 
have enwrapped the earth some hours, when Higel Bruce 
was startled from an uneasy slumber by the creaking sounds 
of bolts and bars announcing the entrance of some one 
within the dungeon. The name of his beloved, his devoted 
Agnes, trembled on his lips, but fearful of betraying her to 
unfriendly ears, he checked himself, and started up, ex- 
claiming, “ Who comes ? ” Ho answer was vouchsafed, but 
the dim light of a lamp, placed by the intruder on the floor, 
disclosed a figure wrapped from head to foot in the shroud- 
ing mantle of the time, not tall, but appearing a stout mus- 
cular person, banishing on the instant Higel’s scarcely- 
formed hope that it was the only one he longed to see. 

“ What wouldst thou ? ” he said, after a brief pause. 
“ Doth Edward practise midnight murder ? Speak, who art 
thou?” 

“ Midnight murder, thou boasting fool ; I love thee not 
well enough to cheat the hangman of his prey,” replied a 
harsh and grating voice, which, even without the removal 
of the cloak, would have revealed to Higel’s astonished ears 
the Earl of Buchan. “ Ha ! I have startled thee — thou didst 
not know the deadly enemy of thy accursed race ! ” 

“ I know thee now, my Lord of Buchan,” replied the 
young man, calmly ; “ yet know I not wherefore thou art 
here, save to triumph over the fallen fortunes of thy foe ; if 
so, scorn on — I care not. A few brief hours, and all of 
earth and earthly feeling is at rest.” 

“ To triumph — scorn! I had scarce travelled for petty 
satisfaction such as that, when to-morrow sees thee in the 
hangman’s hands, the scorn of thousands! Hath Buchan 
no other work with thee, thinkest thou? dost thou affirm 
thou knowest naught for which he hath good cause to seek 
thee?” 

“ Earl of Buchan, I dare affirm it,” answered Higel, 
proudly ; “ I know of naught to call for words or tones as 
these, save, perchance, that the love and deep respect in 
which I hold thine injured countess, my friendship for thy 
murdered son, hath widened yet more the breach between 
thy house and mine — it may be so; yet deem not, cruel as 
thou art, I will deny feelings in which I glory, at thy bid- 
ding. An thou comest to reproach me with these things, 
rail on, they affect me as little as thy scorn.” 


290 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


“ Hadst thou said love for her they call my daughter, 
thou hadst been nearer the mark,” retorted the earl, fury 
rapidly gaining possession of heart and voice ; “ but thou 
art too wise, too politic for that.” 

“ Aye,” retorted Nigel, after a fearful struggle with him- 
self, “ aye, thou mayest well add love for Agnes of Buchan, 
as well • as friendship for her brother. Thinkest thou I 
would deny it — hide it? little dost thou know its thrilling, 
its inspiring power; little canst thou know how I glory in 
it, cherish, linger on it still. But wherefore speak thus to 
thee, thou man of wickedness and blood. I love thy pure 
and spotless child, rejoice that thou didst so desert, so ut- 
terly neglect her, that thou couldst no more leave a shadow 
on her innocent heart than a cloud upon her way. I love 
her, glory in that love, and what is it to thee ? ” 

“ What is it to me ? that a child of the house of Comyn 
dare hold commune with a Bruce; that thou hast dared to 
love a daughter of my house, aye, to retain her by thy side a 
willing mistress, when all others of her sex forsook thee — 
what is it to me ? Did not to-morrow give thee to a traitor’s 
doom, thy blood should answer thee ; but as it is, villain and 
slave, give her to me — where is her hiding-place? speak, or 
the torture shall wring it from thee.” 

“ Thinkest thou such threats will in aught avail thee ? ” 
calmly replied Nigel. “ Thou knowest not the Bruce. 
Agnes is no longer a Comyn, no longer a subject to thy 
guardianship. The voice of God, the rites at the altar’s 
foot, have broken every link, save that which binds her to 
her husband. She is mine, before God and man is mine — 
mine own faithful and lawful wife ! ” 

“ Thou liest, false villain ! ” furiously retorted Buchan. 
“ The church shall undo these bonds, shall give her back to 
the father she has thus insulted. She shall repent, repent 
with tears of blood, her desertion of her race. Canst thou 
protect her in death, thou fool — canst thou still cherish and 
save her, thinkest thou, when the hangman hath done his 
work ? ” 

“ Aye, even then she will be cherished, loved for Nigel’s 
sake, and for her own ; there will be faithful friends around 
her to protect her from thee still, tyrant! Thou canst not 
break the bonds that bind us; thou hast done no father’s 
part. Forsaken and forgotten, thy children owe thee no 
duty, no obedience; thou canst bring forward no plea to 
persecute thy child. In life and in death she is mine, mine 
alone; the power and authority thou hast spurned so long 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


291 


can no longer be assumed; the love, the obedience thou 
didst never heed, nay, trampled on, hath been transferred to 
one who glories in them both. She is in safety — slay, tor- 
ture as thou wilt, I tell thee no more.” Fettered, unarmed, 
firm, undauntedly erect, stood Nigel Bruce, gazing with 
curling lip and flashing eyes upon his foe. The foam had 
gathered on the earl’s lip, his hand clinching his sword, had 
trembled with passion as Nigel spoke. He sought to sup- 
press that rage, to remember a public execution would re- 
venge him infinitely more than a blow of his sword, but he 
had been too long unused to control; lashed into ungovern- 
able fury by the demeanor of Nigel, even more than by his 
words, the sword flashed from its scabbard, was raised, and 
fell — but not upon his foe, for the Earl of Gloucester sud- 
denly stood between them. 

“ Art thou mad, or tired of life, my Lord of Buchan ? ” 
he said. “ Knowest thou not thou art amenable to the law, 
an thou thus deprivest justice of her victim? Shame, 
shame, my lord ; I deemed thee not a midnight murderer.” 

“ Darest thou so speak to me ? ” replied Buchan, fiercely ; 
“ by every fiend in hell, thou shalt answer this ! Begone, 
and meddle not with that which concerneth thee nothing.” 

“ It doth concern me, proud earl,” replied Gloucester, 
standing immediately before Nigel, whose emotion at ob- 
serving the page by whom he was accompanied, though mo- 
mentary, must otherwise have been observed. “ The person 
of the prisoner is sacred to the laws of his country, the 
mandate of his sovereign; on thy life thou darest not injure 
him — thou knowest that thou darest not. Do thou begone, 
ere I summon those who, at the mere mention of assault on 
one condemned, will keep thee in ward till thou canst wreak 
thy vengeance on naught but clay ; begone, I say ! ” 

“ I will not,” sullenly answered the earl, unwillingly 
conscious of the truth of his words ; “ I will not, till he hath 
answered me. Once more,” he added, turning to Nigel with 
a demoniac scowl, “ w T here is she whom thou hast dared to 
call thy wife? answer me, or as there is a hell beneath us, 
the torture shall wring it from thee ! ” 

“ In safety, where thine arm shall never reach her,” 
haughtily answered the young nobleman. “Torture! what 
wilt thou torture — the senseless clay ? Hence — I defy thee ! 
Death will protect me from thy lawless power; death will 
set his seal upon me ere we meet again.” 

The earl muttered a deep and terrible oath, and then he 
strode away, coming in such violent contact against the 


292 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


slight and almost paralyzed form of Gloucester’s page as 
he stood in the doorway, as nearly to throw him to the 
ground. Nigel sprung forward, but was held back with a 
grasp of iron by the Earl of Gloucester, nor did he re- 
linquish his hold till Buchan had passed through the door- 
way, till the heavy hinges had finally closed again, and 
the step of the departing earl had entirely faded in dis- 
tance. 

“Now, then, we are safe,” he said, “thank Heaven!” 
but his words Were scarcely heard, for the page had bounded 
within the extended arms of Nigel, had clung so closely to 
his heart, he could feel nothing, see nothing, save that slen- 
der form ; could hear nothing but those deep, agonized sobs, 
wdiich are so terrible when unaccompanied by the relief of 
tears. For a while Nigel could not speak — he could not ut- 
ter aught of comfort, for he felt it not; that moment was 
the bitterness of death. 

“Torture! did he not speak of torture? will he not 
come again ? ” were the words that at length fell, shudder- 
ingly, from the lips of Agnes. “ Nigel, Nigel, if it must 
be, give me up; he cannot inflict aught more of misery 
now.” 

“ Fear not, lady; he dare not,” hastily rejoined Glouces- 
ter. “ The torture dare not be administered without con- 
sent of Edward, and that now cannot be obtained; he will 
not have sufficient — ” time, he was going to say, but checked 
himself ; for the agonized look of Agnes told him his mean- 
ing was more than sufficiently understood. “ Nigel,” he 
added, laying his hand on the young man’s shoulder, 
“ Nigel, my noble, gallant friend — for so I will call thee, 
though I sat in j'udgment on thee, aye, and tacitly ac- 
quiesced in thy sentence — shrink not, oh, shrink not now! 
I saw not a quiver on thy lip, a pallor on thy cheek, nay, nor 
faltering in thy step, when they read a doom at which I 
have marked the bravest blench ; oh, let not that noble spirit 
fail thee now ! ” 

“ Gloucester, it shall not ! ” he said, with suddenly- 
regained firmness, as supporting Agnes with his right arm 
he convulsively wrung the hand of his friend with the other. 
“ It was but the sight of this beloved one, the thought — no 
matter, it is over. Agnes, my beloved, my own, oh, look on 
me : speak, tell me all that hath befallen thee since they tore 
thee from me, and filled my soul with darker dread for thee 
than for myself. To see thee with this noble earl is enough 
to know how heavy a burden of gratitude I owe him, which 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


293 


thou, sweetest, must discharge. Yet speak to me, beloved; 
tell me all, all.” 

Emulating his calmness, remembering even at that mo- 
ment her promise not to unman him in the moment of 
trial by vain repinings, Agnes complied with his request. 
Her tale was frequently interrupted by those terrible sobs, 
which seemed to threaten annihilation; but Nigel could 
gather from it so much of tenderness and care on the part 
of the princess, that the deepest gratitude filled his heart, 
and spoke in his impassioned words. 

“ Tell her, oh, tell her, if the prayers of the dying can 
in aught avail her, the blessedness of Heaven shall be hers 
even upon earth ! ” he exclaimed, gazing up in the earl’s 
face with eyes that spoke his soul. “ Oh, I knew her not, 
when in former years I did but return her kindness with 
silence and reserve ; I saw in her little more than the daugh- 
ter of Edward. Tell her, on my knees I beseech her pardon 
for that wrong; in my last prayers I shall breathe her 
name.” 

“ And wherefore didst thou go with her ? ” he continued, 
on Agnes narrating the scene between the princess and the 
king. “Alas! my gentle one, hadst thou not endured 
enough, that thou wouldst harrow up thy soul by hearing 
the confirmation of my doom from the tyrant’s own ruthless 
lips — didst dream of pardon ? dearest, no, thou couldst not.” 

“ Nigel, Nigel, I did, even at that moment, though they 
told me thou wert condemned, that nothing could save thee ; 
though the princess besought me almost on her knees to 
spare myself this useless trial, I would not listen to her. I 
would not believe that all was hopeless; I dreamed still, 
still of pardon, that Edward would listen to his noble child, 
would forgive, and I thought, even if she failed, I would so 
plead he must have mercy, he would listen to me and grant 
my prayer. I did dream of pardon, but it was vain, vain! 
Nigel, Nigel, why did my voice fail, my eye grow dim? I 
might have won thy pardon yet.” 

“ Beloved, thou couldst not,” he answered, mournfully. 
“ Mine own sweet Agnes, take comfort, ’tis but a brief fare- 
well; we shall meet where war and blood and death can 
never enter more.” 

“ I know it, oh, I know it,” she sobbed ; “ but to part 
thus, to lose thee, and by such a death, oh, it is horrible, 
most horrible ! ” 

“Nay, look not on it thus, beloved; there is no shame 
even in this death, if there be no shame in him who dies.” 


294 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


“ Shame ! ” she repeated ; “ couldst think I could couple 
aught of shame with thee, my own? even this dark fate is 
noble when borne by such as thee.” 

Nigel held her closer to his heart, and for his sole answer 
pressed a quivering kiss upon her cheek. Gloucester, who 
had been in earnest commune with the sentinel without the 
door, now returned, and informed him that the soldier, who 
was well known to him and who much disliked his present 
watch, had willingly consented that the page (whom Glou- 
cester had represented as a former attendant of Sir Nigel’s, 
though now transferred to his service) should remain with 
his former master, on condition that the earl would come 
for him before the priests and others who were to attend 
him to the scaffold entered the dungeon, as this departure 
from the regular prison discipline, shown as it was to one 
against whom the king was unusually irritated, might cost 
him his head. Gloucester had promised faithfully, and he 
offered them the melancholy option of parting now, or a few 
sad hours hence. 

“Let me, do let me stay; Nigel, my husband, send me 
not from thee now ! ” exclaimed Agnes, sinking at his feet 
and clasping his knees. “ I will not weep, nor moan, nor in 
aught afflict thee. Nigel, dearest Nigel, I will not leave 
thee now.” 

“ But is it wise, is it well, my best beloved ? think, if in 
the deep anguish of to-morrow thy disguise be penetrated, 
thy. sex discovered, and thy cruel father claim thee, drag- 
ging thee even from the protection of the princess — oh, the 
bitterness of death were doubled then! Thou thinkest but 
of me, mine own, but thy safety, thy future peace is all now 
left for me.” 

“ Safety, peace — oh, do not, do not mock me, Nigel — 
where are they for poor Agnes, save in her husband’s grave ? 
What is life now, that thou shouldst seek to guard it? no, 
no, I will abide by thee, thou shalt not send me hence.” 

“ But to-morrow, lady, to-morrow,” interposed Glouces- 
ter, with deep commiseration. “ I would not, from any self- 
ish fear, shorten by one minute the few sad hours ye may 
yet pass together, but bethink ye, I dare not promise to 
shield thee from the horrors of to-morrow, for I cannot. 
Fearful scenes and sounds may pass before thee; thou may- 
est come in contact with men from whom thou wilt shrink in 
horror, and though thine own safety be of little worth, re- 
member the betrayal of thy sex and rank may hurl down 
the royal vengeance on the head of thy protectress, daugh- 










THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


295 


ter of Edward though she be. Canst thou be firm — wilt 
thou, canst thou await the morrow ? ” 

“ Yes,” answered Agnes, the wildness of her former ac- 
cents subsiding into almost solemnity ; “ the safety of thy 
noble countess shall not be hazarded through me. Leave 
me with my husband, add but this last mercy to the many 
thou hast showered on me, and the blessing of God will 
rest on thee and thy noble wife forever.” 

She raised his hand to her lips, and Gloucester, much 
affected, placed hers in her husband’s, and wrung them con- 
vulsively together. “We shall meet again,” was all he 
trusted his voice to utter, and departed. 

The hours waned, each one finding no change in the 
position of those loving ones. The arm of Agnes twined 
around the neck of her beloved, her brow leaned against his 
bosom, her left hand clasped his right, and his left arm, 
though fettered, could yet fold that slender waist, could yet 
draw her closer to him, with an almost unconscious pressure; 
his lips repeatedly pressed that pale brow, which only moved 
from its position to lift up her eyes at his entreaty in his 
face, and he would look on those features, lovely still, de- 
spite their attenuation and deep sorrow, gaze at them with 
an expression that, spite of his words of consoling love, be- 
trayed that the dream of earth yet lingered; he could not 
close his eyes on her without a thrill of agony, sharper than 
the pang of death. But the enthusiast and the patriot spoke 
not at that hour only of himself, or that dearer self, the 
only being he had loved. He spoke of his country, aye, and 
less deplored the chains which bound her then, than with 
that prophetic spirit sometimes granted to the departing, 
dilated on her future glory. He conjured Agnes, for his 
sake, to struggle on and live; to seek his brother and tell 
him that, save herself, Nigel’s last thought, last prayer was 
his ; that standing on the brink of eternity, the mists of the 
present had rolled away, he saw but the future — Scotland 
free, and Robert her beloved and mighty king. 

“ Bid him not mourn for Nigel,” he said ; “ bid him not 
waver from his glorious purpose, because so many of his 
loved and noble friends must fall — their blood is their coun- 
try’s ransom ; tell him, had I a hundred lives, I would have 
laid them down for him and for my country as gladly, as 
unhesitatingly as the one I now resign; and tell him, dear- 
est, how I loved him to the last, how the recollection of his 
last farewell, his fervent blessing lingered with me to the 
end, giving me strength to strive for him and die, as be- 


296 


THE BAYS OF BKUCE. 


comes his brother; tell him I glory in my death — it has no 
shame, no terror, for it is for him and Scotland. Wilt thou 
remember all this, sweet love? wilt thou speak to him these 
words ? ” 

“ Trust me I will, all, all that thou hast said; they are 
written here,” placing her hand on her heart, “here, and 
they will not leave me, even if all else fail.” 

“ And thou wilt say to him, mine own, that Nigel be- 
sought his love, his tenderness for thee,” he continued, los- 
ing the enthusiasm of the patriot in the tenderness of the 
husband ; “ tell him I look to him in part to discharge the 
debt of love, of gratitude I owe to thee; to guard thee, 
cherish thee as his own child. Alas! alas! I speak as if 
thou must reach him, and yet, beset with danger, misery, as 
thou art, how may this be ? ” 

“Fear not for me; it shall be, my husband. I will do 
thy bidding, I will seek my king,” she said, for when com- 
fort failed for him, she sought to give it. “ Hast forgotten 
Dermid’s words ? He would be near me when I needed him, 
and he will be, my beloved, I doubt him not.” 

“ Could I but think so, could I but know that he would 
be near to shield thee, oh, life’s last care would be at an end,” 
said Nigel, earnestly; and then for some time that silence, 
more eloquent, more fraught with feeling in such an hour 
than the most impassioned words, fell on them both. When 
again he spoke, it was on a yet more holy theme; the 
thoughts, the dreams of heaven, which from boyhood had 
been his, now found vent in words and tones, which thrilled 
to the inmost spirit of his listener, and lingered there, 
when all other sense had fled. He had lived in an era of 
darkness. Revelation in its doctrines belonged to the 
priests alone; faith and obedience demanded by the voice 
of man alone, were all permitted to the laity, and spirits like 
Nigel’s consequently farmed a natural religion, in which 
they lived and breathed, hallowing the rites which they 
practised, giving scope and glory to their faith. He pic- 
tured the world, on whose threshold he now stood, pictured 
it, not with a bold unhallowed hand, but as the completion, 
the consummation of all those dim whisperings of joy, 
and hope, and wisdom, which had engrossed him below 
— the perfection of that beauty, that loveliness, in the 
material and immaterial, he had yearned for in vain on 
earth. 

“ And this world of incomparable unshadowed loveli- 
ness awaits me,” he said, the superstition of the age min- 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


297 


gling for the moment with thoughts which seemed to mark 
him a century beyond his compeers ; “ purchased by that 
single moment of suffering called death. It is mine, my 
beloved, and shall be thine; and oh, when we meet there, 
how trivial will seem the dark woes and boding cares of 
earth! I have told thee the vision of my vigil, Agnes, my 
beloved ; again I have seen that blessed spirit, aye, and there 
was no more sadness on his pale brow, naught, naught of 
earth — spiritualized, etherealized. He hovered over my 
sleep, and with a smile beckoned me to the glorious world 
he inhabits; he seemed to call me, to await me, and then 
the shrouding clouds on which he lay closed thicker and 
thicker round him, till naught but his celestial features 
beamed on me. Agnes, dearest, best, think of me thus, as 
blessed eternally, unchangeably, as awaiting thee to share 
that blessedness, not as one lost to thee, beloved ; and peace, 
aye, joy e’en yet shall smile for thee.” 

“ Nigel, Nigel, are there such things for the desolate, the 
lone ? ” murmured Agnes, raising her pale brow and looking 
despairingly in his face. “ Oh, I will think on thee, pic- 
ture thee in thy thrice-glorified home, but it will be with 
all of mortal clinging to me still, and the wild yearnings to 
come to thee will banish all of peace. Speak not such words 
to thy poor weak Agnes, my beloved. I will struggle on to 
bear thy message to my sovereign; there lies my path when 
thou art gone, darkness envelops it when that goal is gained 
— I have no future now, save that which gives me back to 
thee.” 

He could not answer, and then again there was silence, 
broken only by the low voice of prayer. They knelt to- 
gether on the cold stones, he raised her cold hands with his 
in supplication; he prayed for mercy, pardon for himself, 
for comfort, strength for her; he prayed for his country 
and her king, her chained and sorrowing sons, and the soft, 
liquid star of morning, gleaming forth through heavy 
masses of murky clouds directly on them as they knelt, ap- 
peared an angel’s answer. The dawn broke; bluer and 
bluer became the small and heavily-barred casement, clearer 
and clearer grew the damp walls of the dungeons, and morn- 
ing, in its sunshine and gladness, laughed along the earth. 
Closer and closer did Agnes cling to that noble heart, but 
she spoke no word. “ He tarries long — merciful Heaven, 
grant he be not detained too late ! ” she heard her husband 
murmur, as to himself, as time waned and Gloucester came 
not, and she guessed his thoughts. 


298 


THE BAYS OF BKUCE. 


“ I care not,” she answered, in a voice so hollow he 
shuddered ; “ I will go with thee, even to the scaffold.” 

But Gloucester, true to his promise, came at length; he 
was evidently anxious and disturbed, and a few hurried 
words told how the Earl of Berwick had detained him in idle 
converse, as if determined to prevent any private interview 
with the prisoner ; even now the officers and priests were ad- 
vancing to the dungeons, their steps already reverberated 
through the passages, and struck on the heart of Agnes as 
a bolt of ice. “ I had much, much I wished to say, but even 
had I time, what boots it now? Nigel, worthy brother of 
him I so dearly loved, aye, even now would die to serve, 
fear not for the treasure thou leavest to my care ; as there is 
a God above us, I will guard her as my sister! They come 
— farewell, thou noble heart, thou wilt leave many a foe to 
mourn thee ! ” The voice of the earl quivered with emo- 
tion. Nigel convulsively pressed his extended hand, and 
then he folded Agnes in his arms; he kissed her lips, her 
brow, her cheek, he parted those clustering curls to look 
again and yet again upon her face — pale, rigid as sculptured 
marble. She uttered no sound, she made no movement, but 
consciousness had not departed; the words of Gloucester 
on the previous night rung in her ears, demanding control, 
and mechanically she let her arms unloose their convulsive 
grasp of Nigel, and permitted the earl gently to lead her to 
the door, but ere it opened, she turnd again to look on 
Nigel. He stood, his hands clasped in that convulsive 
pressure of agony, his every feature working with the 
mighty effort at control with the last struggle of the mortal 
shell. With one faint yet thrilling cry she bounded back, 
she threw herself upon his swelling bosom, her lips met his 
in one last lingering kiss, and Gloucester tore her from his 
arms. They passed the threshold, another minute and the 
officers, and guard, and priest stood within the dungeon, 
and a harsh, rude voice bade the confessor haste to shrive 
the prisoner, for the hour of execution was at hand. 

Bearing the slight form of the supposed page in his 
arms, Gloucester hastily threaded the passages leading from 
the dungeon to the postern by which he had intended to 
depart. His plan had been to rejoin his attendants and 
turn his back upon the city of Berwick ere the execution 
could take place; a plan which, from his detention, he al- 
ready found was futile. The postern was closed and se- 
cured, and he was compelled to retrace his steps to a gate 
he had wished most particularly to avoid, knowing that it 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


299 


opened on a part of the court which, from its commanding 
a view of the scaffold, he justly feared would be crowded. 
He had paused but to speak one word of encouragement to 
Agnes, who, with a calmness appalling from the rigidity of 
feature which accompanied it, now stood at his side; he 
bade her only hold by his cloak, and he hoped speedily to 
lead her to a place of safety. She heard him and made a 
sign of obedience. They passed the gate unquestioned, 
traversed an inner court, and made for the great entrance of 
the castle; there, unhappily, their progress was impeded. 
The scaffold, by order of Edward, had been erected on the 
summit of a small green ascent exactly opposite the prison 
of the Countess of Buchan, and extending in a direct line 
about half a quarter of a mile to the right of the castle 
gates, which had been flung wide open, that all the in- 
habitants of Berwick might witness the death of a traitor. 
Already the courts and every vacant space was crowded. A 
sea of human heads was alone visible, nay, the very but- 
tresses and some pinnacles of the castle, which admitted 
any footing, although of the most precarious kind, had 
been appropriated. The youth, the extraordinary beauty, 
and daring conduct of the prisoner had excited an unusual 
sensation in the town, and the desire to mark how such a 
spirit would meet his fate became irresistibly intense. Al- 
ready it seemed as if there could be no space for more, yet 
numbers were still pouring in, not only most completely 
frustrating the intentions of the Earl of Gloucester, but 
forcing him, by the pressure of multitudes, with them to- 
ward the scaffold. In vain he struggled to free himself a 
passage; in vain he haughtily declared his rank and bade 
the presumptuous serfs give way. Some, indeed, fell back, 
but uselessly, for the crowds behind pushed on those be- 
fore, and there was no retreating, no possible means of 
escaping from that sight of horror which Gloucester had 
designed so completely to avoid. In the agony of disap- 
pointment, not a little mixed with terror as to its effects, 
he looked on his companion. There was not a particle of 
change upon her countenance; lips, cheek, brow, were in- 
deed bloodless as marble, and as coldly still; her eyes were 
fascinated on the scaffold, and they moved not, quivered not. 
Even when the figure of an aged minstrel, in the garb of 
Scotland stood between them, and the dread object of their 
gaze, their expression changed not; she placed her hand 
in his, she spoke his name to her conductor, but it was as 
if a statue was suddenly endowed with voice and motion, 
20 


300 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


so cold was the touch of that hand, so sepulchral was that 
voice; she motioned him aside with a gesture that com- 
pelled obedience, and again she looked upon the scaffold. 
The earl welcomed the old man gladly, for the tale of Agnes 
had already prepared him to receive him, and to rely on 
his care to convey her back to Scotland. Engrossed with 
his anxiety for her, and whenever that permitted him, speak- 
ing earnestly to the old man, Gloucester remained wholly 
unconscious of the close vicinity of one he was at that 
moment most desirous to avoid. 

The Earl of Buchan, in the moment of ungovernable 
rage, had indeed flung himself on horseback and galloped 
from the castle the preceding night, intending to seek the 
king, and petition that the execution might be deferred, till 
the torture had dragged the retreat of Agnes from Nigel’s 
lips. The cool air of night, however, had had the effect of 
so far dissipating the fumes of passion, as to convince him 
that it would be well-nigh impossible to reach Carlisle, ob- 
tain an interview with Edward at such an unseasonable 
hour, and return to Berwick in sufficient time for the execu- 
tion of his diabolical scheme. He let the reins fall on his 
horse’s neck, to ponder, and finally made up his mind it was 
better to let things take their course, and the sentence of the 
prisoner proceed without interruption; a determination 
hastened by the thought that should he die under the tor- 
ture, all the ignominy and misery of a public execution 
would be eluded. The night was very dark and misty, the 
road in some parts passing through woods and morasses, and 
the earl, too much engrossed with his own dark thoughts to 
attend to his path, lost the track and wandered round and 
round, instead of going forward. This heightened not the 
amiability of his previous mood; but until dawn his efforts 
to retrace his steps or even discover where he was were use- 
less. The morning, however, enabled him to reach Berwick, 
which he did just as the crowds were pouring into the castle- 
yard, and the heavy toll of the bell announced the com- 
mencement of that fatal tragedy. He hastily dismounted 
and mingled with the populace; they bore him onward 
through another postern to that by which the other crowds 
had impelled Gloucester. Finding the space before them 
already occupied, these two human streams, of course, met 
and conjoined in the centre; and the two earls stood side by 
side. Gloucester, as we have said, wholly unconscious of 
Buchan’s vicinity, and Buchan watching his anxious and 
sorrowful looks with the satisfaction of a fiend, revelling in 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


301 


his being thus hemmed in on all sides, and compelled to 
witness the execution of his friend. He watched him close- 
ly as he spoke with the minstrel, but tried in vain to distin- 
guish what they said. He looked on the page too, and with 
some degree of wonder, though he believed it only mortal 
terror which made him look thus, natural in so young a 
child; but afterward that look was only too fatally re- 
called. 

Sleepless and sad had been that long night to another in- 
mate of Berwick Castle, as well as to Nigel and his Agnes. 
It was not till the dawn had broken that the Countess of 
Buchan had sunk into a deep though troubled slumber, for 
it was not till then the confused sounds of the workmen em- 
ployed in erecting the scaffold had ceased. She knew not 
for whom it was upraised, what noble friend and gallant 
patriot would there be sacrificed. She would not, could not 
believe it was for Nigel; for when his name arose in her 
thoughts, it was shudderingly repelled, and with him came 
the thought of her child — where, oh, where was she? — what 
would be her fate? The tolling of the bell awoke her from 
the brief trance of utter unconsciousness into which, from 
exhaustion, she had fallen. She glanced once beneath her. 
The crowds, the executioner at his post, the guard already 
round the scaffold, too truly told the hour was at hand, and 
though her heart turned sick with apprehension, and she 
felt as if to know the worst were preferable to the hour of 
suspense, she could not look again, and she would have 
sought the inner chamber, and endeavor to close both ears 
and eyes to all that was passing without, when the Earl of 
Berwick suddenly entered, and harshly commanded her to 
stir not from the cage. 

“ It is your sovereign’s will, madam, that you witness the 
fate of the traitor so daring in your cause,” he said, as with 
a stern grasp he forced her to the grating and retained his 
hold upon her arm ; “ that you may behold in his deserved 
fate the type of that which will at length befall the yet 
blacker traitor of his name. It is fitting so loyal a pa- 
triot as thyself should look on a patriot’s fate, and profit 
thereby.” 

“ Aye, learn how a patriot can die — how, when his life 
may no more benefit his country and his kin, he may serve 
them in his death,” calmly and proudly she answered. “ It 
is well; perchance, when my turn cometh, I may thank thy 
master for the lesson now rudely forced upon me. The 
hour will come when the blood that he now so unjustly 


302 


THE HAYS OF BKUCE. 


sheds shall shriek aloud for vengeance. On me let him 
work his will — I fear him not.” 

“ Be silent, minion ! I listen not to thy foul treason,” 
said the earl, hoarse with suppressed passion at the little 
effect his sovereign’s mandate produced, when he had hoped 
to have enforced it midst sobs and tears ; and she was silent, 
for her eye had caught one face amid the crowd that fas- 
cinated its gaze, and sent back the blood, which had seemed 
to stagnate when the idea that it was indeed Nigel now 
about to suffer had been thus rudely thrust upon her — sent 
it with such sudden revulsion through its varied channels, 
that it was only with a desperate struggle she retained her 
outward calmness, and then she stood, to the eye of Berwick, 
proud, dignified, collected, seemingly so cold, that he doubt- 
ed whether aught of feeling could remain, or marvelled if 
the mandate of Edward had indeed power to inflict aught 
of pain. But within — oh, the veriest tyrant must have 
shuddered, could he have known the torture there; she saw, 
she recognized her child; she read naught but madness in 
that chiselled gaze; she saw at a glance there was no escap- 
ing from beholding, to the dreadful end, the fate of her be- 
loved; before, behind, on every side, the crowds pressed 
round, yet from the slightly elevated position of the scaffold, 
failing to conceal it from her gaze. The Earl of Gloucester 
she perceived close at her side, as if protecting her; but if 
indeed she was under his care, how came she on such a spot, 
at such a time ? — did he know her sex, or only looked on her 
as a favored page of Nigel’s, and as such protected? Yet 
would not the anguish of that hour betray her not alone 
to him, but to that dark and cruel man whom she also 
marked beside her, and who, did he once know her, would 
demand the right of a father, to give her to his care? and 
oh, how would that right be exercised ! would the murderer 
of his son, his heir, have pity on a daughter? But it would 
be a vain effort to picture the deep anguish of that mother’s 
heart, as in that dread moment she looked upon her child, 
knowing, feeling her might of grief, as if it had been her 
own; well-nigh suffocated with the wild yearning to fold 
her to her maternal bosom, to bid her weep there, to 
seek to comfort, to soothe, by mingling her tears with hers, 
to protect, to hide her misery from all save her mother’s eye 
to feel this till every pulse throbbed as to threaten her with 
death, and yet to breathe no word, to give no sign that such 
things were, lest she should endanger that precious one yet 
more. She dared not breathe one question of the many 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


303 


crowding on her heart, she could but gaze and feel. She 
had thought, when they told her that her boy was dead, 
that she had caused his death, there was little more of 
misery fate could weave, but at that moment even Alan was 
forgotten. It was her own wretchedness she had had then 
to bear, for he was at rest ; but now it was the anguish of 
that dearer self, her sole remaining child — and oh, a moth- 
er’s heart can better bear its individual woes than those 
that crush a daughter to the earth. 

A sudden rush amid the crowd, where a movement could 
take place, the heavy roll of muffled drums, and the yet 
deeper, more wailing toll of the funeral bell, announced that 
the prisoner had left the dungeon, and irresistibly the gaze 
of the countess turned from her child to seek him; per- 
chance it was well, for the preservation of her composure, 
that the intervening crowd prevented her from beholding 
him till he stood upon the scaffold, for hardly could she 
have borne unmoved the sight of that noble and gallant 
form — beloved alike as the friend of her son, the betrothed 
of her daughter, the brother of her king — degraded of all 
insignia of rank, chained to the hurdle, and dragged as the 
commonest, the vilest criminal, exposed to the mocking 
gaze of thousands, to the place of execution. She saw him 
not thus, and therefore she knew not wherefore the features 
of Agnes had become yet more rigid, bore yet more the 
semblance of chiselled marble. He stood at length upon the 
scaffold, as calmly majestic in his bearing as if he had 
borne no insult, suffered no indignity. His beautiful hair 
had been arranged with care on either side his face, and 
still fell in its long, rich curls, about his throat; and so 
beautiful, so holy was the expression of his perfect features, 
that the assembled crowds hushed their very breath in ad- 
miration and in awe; it seemed as if the heaven, on whose 
threshold he stood, had already fixed its impress on his brow. 
Every eye was upon him, and all perceived that holy calm- 
ness was for one brief minute disturbed; but none, save 
three of those who marked it, knew or even guessed the 
cause. The countess had watched his glance, as at first 
composedly it had wandered over the multitude beneath and 
around him, and she saw it rest on that one face, which, in 
its sculptured misery, stood alone amid thousands, and she 
alone perceived the start of agony that sight occasioned, but 
speedily even that emotion passed; he looked from that 
loved face up to the heaven on which his hopes were fixed, 
in whose care for her he trusted — and that look was prayer. 


304 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


She saw him as he knelt in prayer, undisturbed by the 
clang of instruments still kept up around him; she saw him 
rise, and then a deadly sickness crept over her every limb, a 
thick mist obscured her sight, sense seemed on the point 
of deserting her, when it was recalled by a sound of horror — 
a shriek so wild, so long, so thrilling, the rudest spirit 
midst those multitudes shrunk back appalled, and crossed 
themselves in terror. On one ear it fell with a sense of 
agony almost equal to that from whence it came; the 
mother recognized the voice, and feeling, sight, hearing, as 
by an electric spell, returned. She looked forth again, and 
though her eye caught the noble form of Nigel Bruce yet 
quivering in the air, she shrunk not, she sickened not, for 
its gaze sought her child; she had disappeared from the 
place she had occupied. She saw the Earl of Gloucester 
making a rapid way through the dispersing crowds, a sud- 
den gust blew aside his wrapping-cloak, the face of her child 
was exposed to her view, there was a look of death upon her 
brow; and if the Earl of Berwick had lingered to note 
whether indeed this scene of horror would pass unnoticed, 
unfelt by his prisoner, he was gratified at length, for Isa- 
bella of Buchan lay senseless on her prison floor. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

“ And she is in safety, Gilbert ? ” inquired the Princess 
Joan, the evening of the day following the execution, lifting 
her eyes, swimming in tears, to her husband’s face. They 
were sitting alone in their private apartments, secured from 
all intruders by a page stationed in the ante-room; and the 
earl had been relating some important particulars of the 
preceding day. 

“ I trust in Heaven she is, and some miles ere now on 
her road to Scotland,” was his answer. “ I fear for nothing 
save for the beautiful mind that fragile shell contains; 
alas ! my Joan, I fear me that has gone forever! ” 

“ Better, oh better, then, that fainting-fit had indeed 
been death,” she said, “ that the thread of life had snapped 
than twisted thus in madness. Yet thou sayest her pur- 
pose seemed firm, her intellect clear, in her intense desire 
to reach Scotland. Would this be, thinkest thou, were they 
disordered ? ” 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


305 


“ I think yes ; for hadst thou seen, as I, the expression 
of countenance, the unearthly calmness with which this de- 
sire was enforced, the constant, though unconscious, repeti- 
tion of words as these, ‘ to the king, to the king, my path 
lies there, he bade me seek him; perchance he will be there 
to meet me/ thou too wouldst feel that, when that goal is 
gained, her husband’s message given, sense must fail or 
life itself depart. But once for a few brief minutes I saw 
that calmness partly fail, and I indulged in one faint hope 
she would be relieved by tears. She saw old Dermid gaze 
on her and weep ; she clung to his neck, her features worked 
convulsively, and her voice was choked and broken, as she 
said, ‘ We must not tarry, Dermid, we must not wait to 
weep and moan; I must seek King Robert while I can. 
There is a fire on my brain and heart, which will soon scorch 
up all memory but one; I must not wait till it has reached 
his words, and burned them up too — oh, let us on at once ; ’ 
but the old man’s kindly words had not the effect I hoped, 
she only shook her head, and then, as if the horrible recol- 
lection of the past flashed back, a convulsive shuddering 
passed through her frame, and when she raised her face / 
from her hand its marble rigidity had returned.” 

“ Alas ! alas ! poor sufferer,” exclaimed the princess, in 
heartfelt sorrow ; “ I fear indeed, if such things be, there is 
little hope of reason. I would thou hadst conveyed her 
here, perchance the soothing and sympathy of one of her 
own sex had averted this evil.” 

“ I doubt, my kind J oan,” replied her husband ; “ thy 
words had such beneficial power before, because hope had 
still possession of her breast, she hoped to the very last, aye, 
even when she so madly went with thee to Edward; now 
that is over ; hope is crushed, when despair has risen. Thou 
couldst not have soothed; it would have been but wringing 
thy too kind heart, and exposing her to other and height- 
ened evils.” The princess looked up inquiringly. “ Know- 
est thou not Buchan hath discovered that his daughter re- 
mained with Nigel Bruce, as his engaged bride, at Kildrum- 
mie, and is even now seeking her retreat, vowing she shall 
repent with tears of blood her connection with a Bruce ? ” 

“ I did not indeed ; how came this ? ” 

“ How, I know not, save that it was reported Buchan 
had left the court, on a mission to the convent where the 
Oountess of Carrick and her attendants are immured, and 
in all probability learnt this important fact from them. I 
only know that at the instant I entered the prisoner’s dun- 


306 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


geon, Buchan was demanding, at the sword’s point, the 
place of her retreat, incited to the deadliest fury at Nigel’s 
daring avowal that Agnes was his wife.” 

“ Merciful Heaven ! and Agnes, what did she ? ” 

“ I know not, for I dared not, absolutely dared not look 
upon her face. Her husband’s self-control saved her, for 
he stood and answered as calmly and collectedly as if indeed 
she were in the safety he declared; her father brushed by, 
nay, well-nigh stumbled over her, as he furiously quitted 
the dungeon, glared full at her, but knew her not. But I 
dared not again bring her here, it was in too close vicinity 
with the king and her cruel father, for her present state 
of mind must have betrayed every disguise.” 

“ And thinkest thou he could have the heart to injure 
her, separated as she is by death from the husband of her 
love ? ” 

“ Aye, persecute her as he hath his wife and son. Joan, I 
would rather lose my own right hand than that unhappy 
girl should fall into her father’s power. Confinement, in- 
deed, though it would add but little real misery to her 
present lot, yet I feel that with her present wild yearnings 
to rejoin the Bruce, to fulfil to the very utmost her hus- 
band’s will, it would increase tenfold the darkness round 
her; the very dread of her father would unhinge the last 
remaining link of intellect.” 

Joan shuddered. “ God in mercy forefend such ill!” 
she said, fervently ; “ I would I could have seen her once 
again, for she has strangely twined herself about my heart ; 
but thou hast judged wisely, my Gilbert, her safety is 
too precious to be thus idly risked; and this old man, 
canst thou so trust him — will he guide her tenderly and 
well ? ” 

“ Aye, I would stake my life upon his truth ; he is the 
seer and minstrel of the house of Bruce, and that would be 
all-sufficient to guarantee his unwavering fidelity and skill. 
He has wandered on foot from Scotland, to look on his be- 
loved master once again; to watch over, as a guardian 
spirit, the fate of that master’s devoted wife, and he will 
do this, I doubt not, and discover Carrick’s place of retreat, 
were it at the utmost boundaries of the earth. I only dread 
pursuit.” 

“ Pursuit ! and by whom ? ” 

“ By her father. Men said he was close beside me dur- 
ing that horrible hour, though I saw him not; if he ob- 
served her, traced to her lips that maddening shriek, it 


THE DAYS OF BEUCE. 


307 


would excite his curiosity quite sufficiently for him to trace 
my steps, and discovery were then inevitable.” 

“ But did he do this — hast seen him since ? ” 

“ No, he has avoided me; but still, for her sake, I fear 
him. I know not how or when, but there are boding whis- 
pers within me that all will not be well. Now I would have 
news from thee. Is Hereford released ? ” 

“ Yes; coupled with the condition that he enters not my 
father’s presence until Easter. He is deeply and justly 
hurt ; but more grieved at the change in his sovereign than 
angered at the treatment of himself.” 

“No marvel; for if ever there were a perfect son of 
chivalry, one most feelingly alive to its smallest point of 
honor, it is Humphrey Bohun.” 

So spoke Gilbert de Clare, Earl of Gloucester, uncon- 
scious that he himself had equal right to a character so ex- 
alted; that both Scottish and English historians would 
emulate each other in handing his name down to posterity, 
surrounded by that lucid halo of real worth, on which the 
eye turns again and again to rest for relief from the darker 
minds and ruder hearts which formed the multitude of the 
age in which he lived. The duties of friendship were per- 
formed in his preservation of the person, and constant and 
bold defence of the character of the Bruce; the duties of a 
subject, in dying on the battle-field in service for his king. 

The boding prognostics of the Earl of Gloucester were 
verified ere that day closed. While still in earnest converse 
with his countess, a messenger came from the king, de- 
manding their instant presence in his closet. The summons 
was so unusual, that in itself it was alarming, nor did the 
sight of the Earl of Buchan in close conference with the 
monarch decrease their fears. As soon as a cessation of his 
pains permitted the exertion, Buchan had been sent for by 
the king; the issue of his inquiries after his daughter de- 
manded, and all narrated; his interview with Sir Nigel 
dwelt upon with all the rancor of hate. Edward had lis- 
tened without making any observation; a twinkle of his 
still bright eye, an expression about the lips alone betraying 
that he not only heard but was forming his own conclusions 
from the tale. 

“ And you have no clue, no thought of her retreat ? ” he 
asked, at length, abruptly, when the earl ceased. 

“ Not the very faintest, your grace. Had not that inter- 
fering Gloucester come between me and my foe, I had 
forced it from him at the sharp sword’s point,” 


308 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


“Gloucester — humph!” muttered the king. “Yet an 
so bloody was thy purpose, my good lord, his interference 
did thee no ill. How was the earl accompanied — was he 
alone ? ” 

“ If I remember rightly, alone, your grace. Ho, by my 
faith, there was a page with him ! ” 

“ A page — ha ! and what manner of man was he ? ” 

“ Man ! your highness, say rather a puny stripling, with 
far more of the woman about him than the man.” 

“ Ha ! ” again uttered the king ; “ looked he so weakly — 
did thy fury permit such keen remark ? ” 

“Hot at that time, your highness; but he was, with 
Gloucester, compelled to witness the execution of this black 
traitor, and he looked white, statue-like, and uttered a 
shriek, forsooth, likely to scare back the villain’s soul even 
as it took flight. Gloucester cared for the dainty brat, as 
if he had been a son of your highness, not a page in his 
household, for he lifted him up in his arms, and bore him 
out of the crowd.” 

“ Humph ! ” said Edward again, in a tone likely to have 
excited curiosity in any mind less obtuse on such matters 
than that of the Scottish earl. “ And thou sayest,” he 
added, after some few minutes’ pause, “ this daring traitor, 
so lately a man, would tell thee no more than that thy 
daughter was his wife, and in safety — out of thy reach ? ” 
Buchan answered in the affirmative. 

“ And thou hast not the most distant idea where he hath 
concealed her ? ” 

“ Hone, your highness.” 

“ Then I will tell thee, sir earl ; and if thou dost not feel 
inclined to dash out thine own brains with vexation at let- 
ting thy prey so slip out of thy grasp, thou art not the man 
I took thee for,” and Edward fixed his eyes on his startled 
companion with a glance at once keen and malicious. 

“ The white and statue-looking page, with more of 
woman about him than the man, was the wife of this rank 
villain, Sir Higel Bruce, and thy daughter, my Lord of 
Buchan. The Earl of Gloucester may, perchance, tell thee 
more.” 

The earl started from his seat with an oath, which the 
presence of majesty itself could not restrain. The dulness 
of his brain was dissolved as by a flash of lightning; the 
ghastly appearance, the maddening shriek, the death-like 
faint, all of which he had witnessed in Gloucester’s supposed 
page, nay, the very disturbed and anxious look of the earl 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


309 


himself, gave truth and life to Edward’s words, and he 
struck his clinched fist against his brow, and strode up and 
down the royal closet, in a condition as frantically disturbed 
as the monarch could possibly have desired; and then, has- 
tily and almost incoherently, besought the king’s aid in sift- 
ing the matter to the very bottom, and obtaining reposses- 
sion of his daughter, entreating a leave of absence to seek 
out Gloucester and tax him with the fact. 

Edward, whose fury against the house of Bruce — 
whether man, woman, or child, noble, or serf, belonging to 
them — had been somewhat soothed by the ignominious exe- 
cution of Nigel, had felt almost as much amused as angered 
at the earl’s tale, and enjoyed the idea of a man, whom in 
his inmost heart he most thoroughly despised, having been 
so completely outwitted, and for the time so foiled. The 
feud between the Comyn and the Bruce was nothing to him, 
except where it forwarded his own interests. He had in- 
cited Buchan to inquire about his daughter, simply because 
the occupation would remove that earl out of his way for a 
short time, and perhaps, if the rumor of her engagement 
with one of the brothers of the Bruce were true, set another 
engine at work to discover the place of their concealment. 
The moment Buchan informed him it was to Nigel she had 
been engaged, with Nigel last seen, his acute penetration re- 
called the page who had accompanied the princess when she 
supplicated mercy, and had he heard no more, would have 
pointed there for the solution of the mystery. Incensed he 
was and deeply, at the fraud practised upon him by the Earl 
and Countess of Gloucester daring to harbor, nay, protect 
and conceal the wife of a traitor; but his anger was sub- 
dued in part by the belief that now it was almost impossible 
she could escape the wardance of her father, and his venge- 
ance would be more than sufficient to satisfy him; nay, 
when he recalled the face and the voice, it was so like mad- 
ness and death, and he was, moreover, so convinced that 
now her husband was dead she could do him no manner of 
harm, that he inwardly and almost unconsciously hoped she 
might eventually escape her father’s, power, although he 
composedly promised the earl to exercise his authority, and 
give him the royal warrant for the search and committal of 
her person wherever she might be. Anger, that Gloucester 
and his wife should so have dared his sovereign power, was 
now the prevailing feeling, and therefore was it he com- 
manded their presence, determined to question them him- 
self, rather than through the still enraged Buchan. 


310 


THE DAYS OF BKUCE. 


Calmly and collectedly the noble pair received alike the 
displeasure of their sovereign and the ill-concealed fury of 
Buchan. They neither denied the charge against them nor 
equivocated in their motives for their conduct; alarmed 
they were, indeed, for the unhappy Agnes; but as denial 
and concealment were now alike impossible, and could avail 
her nothing, they boldly, nay, proudly acknowledged that 
which they had done, and openly rejoiced it had been theirs 
to give one gleam of comfort to the dying Nigel, by ex- 
tending protection to his wife. 

“ And are ye not traitors— bold, presuming traitors — de- 
serving the chastisement of such, bearding me thus in my 
very palace ? ” wrathf ully exclaimed Edward. “ Know ye 
not both are liable to the charge of treason, aye, treason — 
and fear ye to brave us thus ? ” 

“ My liege, we are no traitors, amenable to no such 
charge,” calmly answered Gloucester ; “ far, far more truly, 
faithfully, devotedly your grace’s subjects than many of 
those who had shrunk from an act as this. That in so 
doing we were likely to incur your royal displeasure, we 
acknowledge with deep regret and sorrow, and I take it no 
shame thus on my knee to beseech your highness’s indul- 
gence for the fault; but if ye deem it worthy of chastise- 
ment, we are ready to submit to it, denying, however, all 
graver charge, than that of failing in proper deference to 
your grace.” 

“All other charge! By St. Edward, is not that 
enough ? ” answered the king, but in a mollified tone. 
“ And thou, minion, thou whom we deemed the very para- 
gon of integrity and honor, hast thou aught to say? Did 
not thy lips frame falsehood, and thy bold looks confirm it ? ” 

“ My father, my noble father, pardon me that in this I 
erred,” answered J oan, kneeling by his side, and, despite his 
efforts to prevent it, clasping his hand and covering it with 
kisses; “yet I spoke no falsehood, uttered naught which 
was not truth. She was ill and weakly; she was well-nigh 
maddened from scenes and sounds of blood. I had besought 
her not to attend me, but a wife’s agony could not be re- 
strained, and if we had refused her the protection she so 
wildly craved, had discovered her person to your highness, 
would it have availed thee aught ? a being young, scarce past 
her childhood — miserable, maddened well-nigh to death, her 
life wrapped up in her husband’s, which was forfeited to 
thee.” 

“ The wife of a traitor, the offspring of a traitress, con- 


THE DAYS OF DEUCE. 


311 


nected on every side with treason, and canst ask if her de- 
tention would have availed us aught? Joan, Joan, thy de- 
fence is but a weak one,” answered the king, sternly, but he 
called her “ Joan,” and that simple word thrilled to her 
heart as the voice of former years, and her father felt a sud- 
den gush of tears fall on the hand he had not withdrawn, 
and vainly he struggled against the softer feelings those 
tears had brought. It was strange that, angered as he 
really was, the better feelings of Edward should in such a 
moment have so completely gained the ascendency. Per- 
haps he was not proof against the contrast before him, pre- 
sented in the persons of Buchan and Gloucester; the base 
villainy of the one, the exalted nobility of the other, alike 
shone forth the clearer from their unusually close contact. 
In general, Edward was wont to deem these softening emo- 
tions foolish weaknesses, which he would banish by shun- 
ning the society of all those who could call them forth. 
Their candid acknowledgment of having deserved his dis- 
pleasure, and submission to his will, however, so soothed 
his self-love, his fondness for absolute power, that he per- 
mitted them to have vent with but little restraint. Agnes 
might have been the wife of a traitor, but he was out of 
Edward’s way; the daughter of a traitress, but she was 
equally powerless ; linked with treason, but too much 
crushed by her own misery to be sensible of aught else. 
Surely she was too insignificant for him to persevere in 
wrath, and alienate by unmerited severity yet more the 
hearts which at such moments he felt he valued, despite his 
every effort to the contrary. 

So powerfully was he worked upon, that had it not been 
for the ill-restrained fury of Buchan, it was possible the 
subject would have been in the end peaceably dismissed; 
but on that earl’s reminding him of his royal word, the 
king commanded Gloucester to deliver up his charge to her 
rightful guardian, and all the past should be forgiven. The 
earl quietly and respectfully replied he could not, for he 
knew not where she was. Wrath gathered on Edward’s 
brow, and Buchan laid his hand on his sword; but neither 
the royal commands nor Buchan’s muttered threats and 
oaths of vengeance could elicit from Gloucester more than 
that she had set off to return to Scotland with an aged man, 
not three hours after the execution had taken place. He 
had purposely avoided all inquiries as to their intended 
route, and therefore not any cross-questioning on the part 
of the king caused him to waver in the smallest point from 


312 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


his original tale, or afforded any evidence that he knew 
more than he said. 

“ Get thee to Sir Edward Cunningham, my Lord of 
Buchan, and bid him draw up a warrant for the detention 
and committal of these two persons wherever they may be,” 
the king said, “ and away with thee, and a trusty troop, with 
all speed to Berwick. Make inquiries of all who at that 
particular hour passed the gates, and be assured thou wilt 
find some clue. Take men enough to scour the country in 
all directions; provide them with an exact description of 
the prisoners they seek, and tarry not, and thou wilt yet gain 
thy prize; living or dead, we resign all our right over her 
person to thee, and give thee power, as her father, to do with 
her what may please thee best. Away with thee, my lord, 
and Heaven speed thee ! ” 

“ My liege and father, oh, why hast thou done this ? ” 
exclaimed the princess, imploringly, as, with a low obeisance 
to the king and a gesture of triumph at the Earl of Glou- 
cester, Buchan departed. “Hath she not borne misery 
enough ! ” 

“ Hay, we do but our duty to our subjects in aiding 
fathers to repress rebellious children,” replied the king. 
“ Of a truth, fair dame of Gloucester, thy principles of filial 
duty seem somewhat as loose and light as those which coun- 
selled abetting, protecting, and concealing the partner of 
a traitor. Wouldst have us refuse Buchan’s most fatherly 
desire ? Surely thou wouldst not part him from his child ? ” 

“ Forever and forever! ” exclaimed the princess, fervent- 
ly. “ Great God in heaven, that such a being should call 
that monster father, and owe him the duty of a child ! But, 
oh, thou dost but jest, my father; in mercy recall that war- 
rant — expose her not to wretchedness as this ! ” 

“ Peace,” replied the king, sternly. “ As thou valuest 
thine own and thy husband’s liberty and life, breathe not 
another syllable, speak not another word for her, or double 
misery shall be her portion. We have shown enough of 
mercy in demanding no further punishment for that which 
ye have done, than that for ten days ye remain prisoners in 
your own apartments. Answer not; we will have no more 
of this.” 

The Earl of Buchan, meanwhile, had made no delay in 
gaining the necessary aids to his plan. Ere two hours 
passed, he was on his road to Berwick, backed with a stout 
body of his own retainers, and bearing a commission to the 
Earl of Berwick to provide him with as many more as he 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


313 


desired. He went first to the hostelry near the outskirts of 
the town, where he remembered Gloucester had borne the 
supposed page. There he obtained much desirable infor- 
mation, an exact description of the dress, features, and ap- 
pearance of both the page and his companion; of the for- 
mer, indeed, he recollected all-sufficient, even had the de- 
scription been less exact. The old minstrel had attracted 
the attention of many within the hostel, and consequently 
enabled Buchan to obtain information from various sources, 
all of which agreed so well that he felt sure of success. 

Backed by the warrant of Edward, he went to the civil 
authorities of the town, obtained four or five technically 
drawn-up descriptions of the prisoners, and intrusted them 
to the different officers, who, with bands of fifty men, he 
commanded to search every nook and corner of the country 
round Berwick, in various directions. He himself discover- 
ing they had passed through the Scotch gate and appeared 
directing their course in a westerly direction, took with him 
one hundred men, and followed that track, buoyed up by the 
hope not only of gaining possession of his daughter, but 
perhaps of falling in with the retreat even of the detested 
Bruce, against whom he had solemnly recorded a vow never 
to let the sword rest in the scabbard till he had revenged 
the murder of his kinsman, the Bed Comyn. Some words 
caught by a curious listener, passing between the page and 
minstrel, and eagerly reported to him, convinced him it 
was Bobert Bruce they sought, and urged him to continue 
the search with threefold vigor. 

Slowly and sadly meanwhile had the hours of their 
weary pilgrimage passed for the poor wanderers, and little 
did they imagine, as they threaded the most intricate paths 
of the borders of Scotland, that they were objects of perse- 
cution and pursuit. Though the bodily strength of Agnes 
had well-nigh waned, though the burning cheek and wander- 
ing, too brightly flashing eye denoted how fearfully did 
fever rage internally, she would not pause save when ab- 
solutely compelled. She could neither sleep nor eat: her 
only cry was, “To the king — bring me but to King Bobert 
while I may yet speak ! ” her only consciousness, that she 
had a mission to perform, that she w 7 as intrusted with a 
message from the dead ; all else was a void, dark, shapeless, 
in which thought framed no image; mind, not a wish. In- 
sensibility it was not, alas! no, that void was woe, all woe, 
w T hich folded up heart and brain as with a cloak of fire, 
scorching up thought, memory, hope — all that could recall 


314 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


the past, vivify the present, or vision forth the future. She 
breathed indeed and spoke, and clung to that aged man with 
all the clinging helplessness of her sex, but scarce could she 
be said to live; all that was real of life had twined round 
her husband’s soul, and with it fled. 

The old man felt not his advanced age, the consciousness 
of the many dangers hovering on their way; his whole 
thought was for her, to bring her to the soothing care and 
protection of the king, and then he cared not how soon his 
sand run out. When wandering in the districts of Annan- 
dale and Garrick, before he had arrived at Berwick, he had 
learned the secret but most important intelligence that King 
Robert had passed the winter off the coast of Ireland, and 
was supposed to be only waiting a favorable opportunity to 
return to Scotland, and once more upraise his standard. 
This news had been most religiously and strictly preserved 
a secret amid the few faithful adherents of the Bruce, who 
perhaps spoke yet more as they hoped than as a fact well 
founded. 

For some days their way had been more fatiguing than 
dangerous, for though the country was overrun with Eng- 
lish, a minstrel and a page were objects far too insignificant, 
in the present state of excitement, to meet with either de- 
tention or notice. Not a week had passed, however, before 
rumors of Buchan’s parties reached the old man’s ears, and 
filled him with anxiety and dread. The feverish restlessness 
of Agnes to advance yet quicker on their way, precluded all 
idea of halting, save in woods and caverns, till the danger 
had passed. Without informing her of all he had heard, 
and the danger he apprehended, he endeavored to avoid all 
towns and villages; but the heavy rains which had set in 
rendered their path through the country yet more precari- 
ous and uncertain, and often compelled him most unwill- 
ingly to seek other and better shelter. At Strathaven, he 
became conscious that their dress and appearance were 
strictly scrutinized, and some remarks that he distinguished 
convinced him that Buchan had either passed through that 
town, or was lingering in its neighborhood still. Turning 
sick with apprehension, the old man hastily retraced his 
steps to the hostel, where he had left Agnes, and found her, 
for the first time since their departure, sunk into a kind of 
sleep or stupor from exhaustion, from which he could not 
bear to arouse her. Watching her for some little time in 
silence, his attention was attracted by whispering voices, 
only separated from him by a thin partition. They recount- 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


315 


ed and compared one by one the dress and peculiar charac- 
teristics of himself and his companion, seeming to compare 
it with a written list. Then followed an argument as to 
whether it would not be better to arrest their progress at 
once, or send on to the Earl of Buchan, who was at a castle 
only five miles distant. How it was determined Dermid 
knew not, for the voices faded in the distance; but he had 
heard enough, and it seemed indeed as if detention and re- 
straint were at length at hand. What to do he knew not. 
Night had now some hours advanced, and to attempt leaving 
the hostel at such an unseasonable hour would be of itself 
sufficient to confirm suspicion. All seemed at rest within 
the establishment; there was no sound to announce that 
a messenger had been despatched to the earl, and he de- 
termined to await as calmly as might be the dawn. 

The first streak of light, however, was scarce visible in 
the east before, openly and loudly, so as to elude all appear- 
ance of flight, he declared his intention of pursuing his 
journey, as the weather had already detained them too long. 
He called on the hostess to receive her reckoning, com- 
manded the mules to be saddled, all of which was done, to 
his surprise, without comment or question, and they de- 
parted unrestrained; the old man too much overjoyed at 
this unexpected escape to note that they were followed by 
two Englishmen, the one on horseback, the other on foot. 
Anxiety indeed had still possession of him, for he could not 
reconcile the words he had overheard with their quiet de- 
parture ; but as the day passed, and they plunged thicker and 
thicker in the woods of Car rick, and there was no sign of 
pursuit, or even of a human form, he hailed with joy a soli- 
tary house, and believed the danger passed. 

The inmates received them with the utmost hospitality; 
the order for their detention had evidently not reached 
them, and Dermid determined on waiting quietly there till 
the exhausted strength of his companion should be recruited, 
and permit them to proceed. An hour and more passed in 
cheerful converse with the aged couple who owned the 
house, and who, with the exception of one or two servants, 
were its sole inhabitants. The tales of the minstrel were 
called for, and received with a glee which seemed to make 
all his listeners feel young again. Agnes alone sate apart; 
her delicate frame and evident exhaustion concealing deeper 
sufferings from her hosts, who vied with each other in seek- 
ing to alleviate her fatigue and give bodily comfort, if they 
could offer no other consolation. Leaning back in a large 
21 


316 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


settle in the chimney corner, she had seemed unconscious of 
the cheerful sociability around her, when suddenly she arose, 
and advancing to Dermid, laid a trembling hand on his arm. 
He looked up surprised. 

“ Hist ! ” she murmured, throwing back the hair from 
her damp brow. “ Hear ye no sound ? ” 

All listened for a time in vain. 

“ Again,” she said ; “ ’tis nearer, more distinct. Who 
comes with a troop of soldiers here ? ” 

It was indeed the heavy trampling of many horse, at first 
so distant as scarcely to be distinguished, save by ears anx- 
ious and startled as old Dermid’s; but nearer and nearer 
they came, till even the inmates of the house all huddled 
together in alarm. Agnes remained standing, her hand on 
Dermid’s arm, her head thrown back, her features bearing 
an expression scarce to be defined. The horses’ hoofs, min- 
gled with the clang of armor, rung sharp and clear on 
the stones of the courtyard. They halted: the pommel of 
a sword was struck against the oaken door, and a night’s 
lodging courteously demanded. The terror of the owners 
of the house subsided, for the voice they heard was Scotch. 

The door was thrown open, the request granted, with the 
same hospitality as had been extended to the minstrel and 
the page. On the instant there was a confused sound of 
warriors dismounting, of horses eager for stabling and for- 
age; and one tall and stately figure, clad from head to foot 
in mail, entered the house, and removing his helmet, ad- 
dressed some words of courteous greeting and acknowledg- 
ment to its inmates. A loud exclamation burst from the 
minstrel’s lips; but Agnes uttered no sound, she made 
one bound forward, and dropped senseless at the war- 
rior’s feet. 


CHAPTEK XXVII. 

It was on a cool evening, near the end of September, 
1311, that a troop, consisting of about thirty horse, and as 
many on foot, were leisurely traversing the mountain passes 
between the counties of Dumfries and Lanark. Their arms 
were well burnished; their buff coats and half-armor in 
good trim; their banner waved proudly from its staff, as 
bright and gay as if it had not even neared a scene of strife ; 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


317 


and there was an air of hilarity and gallantry about them 
that argued well for success, if about to commence an expe- 
dition, or if returning, told with equal emphasis they had 
been successful. That the latter was the case was speedily 
evident, from the gay converse passing between them ; their 
allusions to some late gallant achievement of their patriot 
sovereign; their joyous comparisons between good King 
Robert and his weak opponent, Edward II. of England, 
marvelling how so wavering and indolent a son could have 
sprung from so brave and determined a sire ; for, Scotsmen 
as they were, they were now free, and could thus afford to 
allow the “ hammer ” of their country some knightly quali- 
ties, despite the stern and cruel tyranny which to them had 
ever marked his conduct. They spoke in laughing scorn of 
the second Edward’s efforts to lay his father’s yoke anew 
upon their necks; they said a just Heaven had interfered 
and urged him to waste the decisive moment of action in 
indolence and folly, in the flatteries of his favorite, to the 
utter exclusion of those wiser lords, whose counsels, if fol- 
lowed on the instant, might have shaken even the wise 
and patriot Bruce. Yet they were so devoted to their sover- 
eign, they idolized him alike as a warrior and a man too 
deeply, to allow that to the weak and vacillating conduct of 
Edward they owed the preservation of their country. It 
was easy to perceive by the springy step, the flashing eye, 
the ringing tone with which that magic name, the Bruce, 
was spoken, how deeply it was written on the heart; the joy 
it was to recall his deeds, and feel it was through him that 
they were free ! Their converse easily betrayed them to be 
one of those well-ordered though straggling parties into 
which King Robert’s invading armies generally dispersed at 
his command, when returning to their own fastnesses, after 
a successful expedition to the English border. 

The laugh had just resounded, as we have said, among 
both officers and men; but their leader, who was riding 
about a stone’s throw ahead, gave no evidence of sharing 
their mirth. He was clad from head to foot in chain armor, 
of a hue so dark as to be mistaken for black, and from his 
wearing a surcoat of the same color, unenlivened by any 
device, gave him altogether a somewhat sombre appearance, 
although it could not detract in the smallest degree from 
the peculiar gracefulness and easy dignity of his form, 
which was remarkable both on horseback and on foot. He 
was evidently very tall, and by his firm seat in the saddle, 
had been early accustomed to equestrian exercises; but his 


318 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


limbs were slight almost to delicacy, and though completely 
ensheathed in mail, there was an appearance of extreme 
youth about him, that perhaps rendered the absence of all 
gayety the more striking. Yet on the battle-field he gave 
no evidence of inexperience as a warrior, no sign that he 
was merely a scholar in the art of war; there only did men 
believe he must be older than he seemed; there only his 
wonted depression gave place to an energy, a fire, second to 
none among the Scottish patriots, not even to the Bruce 
himself; then only was the naturally melancholy music of 
his voice lost in accents of thrilling power, of imperative 
command, and the oldest warriors followed him as if under 
the influence of some spell. But of his appearance on the 
field we must elsewhere speak. He now led his men through 
the mountain defiles mechanically, as if buried in medita- 
tion, and that meditation not of the most pleasing na- 
ture. His visor was closed, but short clustering curls, 
of a raven blackness, escaped beneath the helmet, and al- 
most concealed the white linen and finely embroidered 
collar which lay over his gorget, and was secured in front 
by a ruby clasp; a thick plume of black feathers floated 
from his helmet, rivalling in color the mane of his gal- 
lant charger, which pawed the ground, and held his head 
aloft as if proud of the charge he bore. A shield was 
slung round the warrior’s neck, and its device and motto 
seemed in melancholy accordance with the rest of his at- 
tire. On a field argent lay the branch of a tree proper, 
blasted and jagged, with the words “ Ni nom ni paren , je 
suis seui” rudely engraved in Norman French beneath; his 
helmet bore no crest, nor did his war-cry on the field, 
“ Amiot for the Bruce and freedom,” offer any clue to the 
curious as to his history, for that there was some history at- 
tached to him all chose to believe, though the age was too 
full of excitement to allow much of wonderment or curios- 
ity to be expended upon him. His golden spurs gave suffi- 
cient evidence that he was a knight; his prowess on the 
field proclaimed whoever had given him that honor had not 
bestowed it on the undeserving. His deeds of daring, un- 
equalled even in that age, obtained him favor in the eyes 
of every soldier; and if there were some in the court and 
camp of Bruce who were not quite satisfied, and loved not 
the mystery which surrounded him, it mattered not, Sir 
Amiot of the Branch, or the Lonely Chevalier, as he was 
generally called, went on his way unquestioned. 

“ Said not Sir Edward Bruce he would meet us here- 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


319 


abouts at set of sun ? ” were the first words spoken by the 
knight, as, on issuing from the mountains, they found them- 
selves on a broad plain to the east of Lanark, bearing sad 
tokens of a devastating war, in the ruined and blackened 
huts which were the only vestiges of human habitations 
near. The answer was in the affirmative; and the knight, 
after glancing in the direction of the sun, which wanted 
about an hour to its setting, commanded a halt, and desired 
that, while waiting the arrival of their comrades, they 
should take their evening meal. 

On the instant the joyous sounds of dismounting, lead- 
ing horses to picket, unclasping helmets, throwing aside 
the more easily displaced portions of their armor, shields, 
and spears, took the place of the steady tramp and well- 
ordered march. Flinging themselves in various attitudes 
on the greensward, provender was speedily laid before them, 
and rare wines and other choice liquors, fruits of their late 
campaign, passed gayly round. An esquire had, at the 
knight’s sign, assisted him to remove his helmet, shield, and 
gauntlets; but though this removal displayed a beautifully 
formed head, thickly covered with dark hair, his features 
were still concealed by a species of black mask, the mouth, 
chin, and eyes being alone visible, and therefore his identity 
was effectually hidden. The mouth and chin were both 
small and delicately formed ; the slight appearance of beard 
and moustache seeming to denote his age as some one-and- 
twenty years. His eyes, glancing through the opening in 
the mask, were large and very dark, often flashing brightly, 
when his outward bearing was so calm and quiet as to afford 
little evidence of emotion. Some there were, indeed, who 
believed the eye the truer index of the man than aught else 
about him, and to fancy there was far more in that sad 
and lonely knight than was revealed. 

It was evident, however, that to the men now with him, 
his remaining so closely masked was no subject of surprise, 
that they regarded it as an ordinary thing, which in conse- 
quence had lost its strangeness. They were eager and re- 
spectful in their manner toward him, offering to raise him a 
seat of turf at some little distance from their noisy com- 
rades; but acknowledging their attention with kindness 
and courtesy, he refused it, and rousing himself with some 
difficulty from his desponding thoughts, threw himself on 
the sward beside his men, and joined in their mirth and 
jest. 

“Hast thou naught to tell to while away this tedious 


320 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


hour, good Murdoch ? ” he asked, after a while, addressing a 
gray-headed veteran. 

“ Aye, aye, a tale, a tale ; thou hast seen more of the 
Bruce than all of us together,” repeated many eager voices, 
“ and knowest yet more of his deeds than we do ; a tale an 
thou wilt, but of no other hero than the Bruce.” 

“ The Bruce ! ” echoed the veteran ; “ see ye not his 
deeds yourselves, need ye more of them ? ” but there was a 
sly twinkle in his eye that betrayed his love to speak was as 
great as his comrades to hear him. “ Have ye not heard, 
aye, and many of you seen his adventures and escapes in 
Carrick, hunted even as he was by bloodhounds; his guard- 
ing that mountain pass, one man against sixty, aye, abso- 
lutely alone against the Galwegian host of men and blood- 
hounds; Glen Fruin, Loudun Hill, Aberdeen; the harrying 
of Buchan; charging the treacherous foe, when they had 
to bear him from his litter to his horse, aye, and support 
him there; springing up from his couch of pain, and suf- 
fering, and depression, agonizing to witness, to hurt venge- 
ance on the fell traitors; aye, and he did it, and brought 
back health to his own heart and frame; and Forfar, Lorn, 
Dunstaffnage — know ye not all these things? Hay, have ye 
not seen, shared in them all — what would ye more ? ” 

“ The harrying of Buchan, tell us of that,” loudly ex- 
claimed many voices ; while some others shouted, “ the land- 
ing of the Bruce — tell us of his landing, and the spirit fire 
at Turnberry Head; the strange woman that addressed 
him.” 

“ How which am I to tell, good my masters? ” laughing- 
ly answered the old man, when the tumult in a degree sub- 
sided. “ A part of one, and part of the other, and leave ye 
to work out the rest yourselves; truly, a pleasant occupa- 
tion. Say, shall it be thus? yet stay, what says Sir 
Amiot ? ” 

“ As you will, my friends,” answered the knight cheer- 
ily ; “ but decide quickly, or we shall hear neither. I am 
for the tale of Buchan,” there was a peculiarly thrilling em- 
phasis in his tone as he pronounced the word, “ for I was 
not in Scotland at the time, and have heard but disjointed 
rumors of the expedition.” 

The veteran looked round on his eager comrades with an 
air of satisfaction, then clearing his voice, and drawing 
more to the centre of the group : “ Your lordship knows,” he 
began, addressing Sir Amiot, who, stretched at full length 
on the sward, had fixed his eyes upon him, though their 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


321 


eagle glance was partly shaded by his hand, “ that our good 
King Robert the Bruce, determined on the reduction of the 
north of his kingdom, advanced thereto in the spring of 
1308, accompanied by his brother, Lord Edward, that right 
noble gentleman the Earl of Lennox, Sir Gilbert Hay, Sir 
Robert Boyd, and others, with a goodly show of men and 
arms, for his successors at Glen Fruin and Loudun Hill 
had brought him a vast accession of loyal subjects. And 
they were needed, your worship, of a truth, for the traitor- 
ous Comyns had almost entire possession of the castles and 
forts of the north, and thence were wont to pour down their 
ravaging hordes upon the true Scotsmen, and menace the 
king, till he scarcely knew which side to turn to first. Your 
worship coming, I have heard, from the low country, can 
scarcely know all the haunts and lurking-places for treason 
the highlands of our country present; how hordes of trait- 
ors may be trained and armed in these remote districts, 
without the smallest suspicion being attached to them till it 
is well-nigh too late, and the mischief is done. Well, to 
drive out these black villains, to free his kingdom, not alone 
from the yoke of an English Edward, but a Scottish Comyn, 
good King Robert was resolved — and even as he resolved he 
did. Inverness, the citadel of treason and disloyalty, fell 
before him; her defences, and walls, and turrets, and towers, 
all dismantled and levelled, so as to prevent all further har- 
borage of treason; her garrison marched out, the ring- 
leaders sent into secure quarters, and all who hastened to 
offer homage and swear fidelity, received with a courtesy 
and majesty which I dare to say did more for the cause 
of our true king than a Comyn could ever do against it. 
Other castles followed the fate of Inverness, till at length 
the north, even as the south, acknowledged the Bruce, not 
alone as their king, but as their deliverer and savior. 

“ It was while rejoicing over these glorious successes, 
the lords and knights about the person of their sovereign be- 
gan to note with great alarm that his strength seemed wan- 
ing, his brow often knit as with inward pain, his eye would 
grow dim, and his limbs fail him, without a moment’s warn- 
ing; and that extreme depression would steal over his 
manly spirit even in the very moment of success. They 
watched in alarm, but silently; and when they saw the re- 
newed earnestness and activity with which, on hearing of 
the approach of Comyn of Buchan, Sir John de Mowbray, 
and that worst of traitors, his own nephew, Sir David of 
Brechin, he rallied his forces, advanced to meet them, and 


322 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


compelled them to retreat confusedly to Aberdeen, they 
hoped they had been deceived, and all was well. 

“ But the fell disease gained ground ; at first he could 
not guide his charger’s reins, and then he could not mount 
at all; his voice failed, his sight passed; they were com- 
pelled to lay him in a litter, and bear him in the midst of 
them, and they felt as if the void left by their sovereign’s 
absence from their head was filled with the dim shadow of 
death. Nobly and gallantly did Lord Edward endeavor to 
remedy this fatal evil; Lennox, Hay, even the two Frasers, 
who had so lately joined the king, seemed as if paralyzed by 
this new grief, and hung over the Bruce’s litter as if their 
strength waned with his. Sternly, nay, at such a moment 
it seemed almost harshly, Lord Edward rebuked this weak- 
ness, and, conducting them to Slenath, formed some strong 
entrenchments, of which the Bruce’s pavilion was the cen- 
tre, intending there to wait his brother’s recovery. Ah, my 
masters, if ye were not with good King Robert then, ye have 
escaped the bitterest trial. Ye know not what it was to 
behold him — the savior of his country, the darling of his 
people, the noblest knight and bravest warrior who ever 
girded on a sword — lie there, so pale, so faint, with scarce 
a voice or passing sigh to say he breathed. The hand which 
grasped the weal of Scotland, the arm that held her shield, 
lay nerveless as the dead; the brain which thought so well 
and wisely for his fettered land, lay powerless and still ; the 
thrilling voice was hushed, the flashing eye was closed. 
The foes were close around him, and true friends in tears 
and woe beside his couch, were all alike unknown. Ah! 
then was the time for warrior’s tears, for men of iron frame 
and rugged mood to soften into woman’s woe, and weep. 
Men term Lord Edward Bruce so harsh and stern, one whom 
naught of grief for others or himself can move; they saw 
him not as I have. It was mine to watch my sovereign, 
when others sought their rest; and I have seen that rugged 
chieftain stand beside his brother’s couch alone, unmarked, 
and struggle with his spirit till his brow hath knit, his 
lip become convulsed, and then as if ’twere vain, all vain, 
sink on his knee, clasp his sovereign’s hand, and bow his 
head and weep. ’Tis passed and over now, kind Heaven be 
praised! yet I cannot recall that scene, unbind the folds of 
memory, unmoved.” 

The old man passed his rough hand across his eyes, and 
for a brief moment paused ; his comrades, themselves affect- 
ed, sought not to disturb him, and quickly he resumed. 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


323 


“ Days passed, and still King Robert gave no sign of 
amendment, except, indeed, there were intervals when his 
eyes wandered to the countenances of his leaders, as if he 
knew them, and would fain have addressed them as his wont. 
Then it was our men were annoyed by an incessant dis- 
charge from Buchan’s archers, which, though they could do 
perhaps no great evil, yet wounded many of our men, and 
roused Lord Edward’s spirit to resent the insult. His de- 
termination to leave the entrenchments and retreat to 
Strathbogie, appeared at first an act of such unparalleled 
daring as to startle all his brother leaders, and they hesi- 
tated; but there never was any long resisting Sir Edward’s 
plans; he bears a spell no spirit with a spark of gallantry 
about him can resist. The retreat was in consequence de- 
termined on, to the great glee of our men, who were tired 
of inaction, and imagined they should feel their sovereign’s 
sufferings less if engaged hand to hand with the foe, in his 
service, than watching him as they had lately done, and 
dreading yet greater evils. 

“ Ye have heard of this daring retreat, my friends ; it 
was in the mouth of every Scotsman, aye, and of English- 
man, too, for King Robert himself never accomplished a 
deed of greater skill. The king’s litter was placed in the 
centre of a square, which presented on either side such an 
impenetrable fence of spears and shields, that though Buch- 
an and De Mowbray mustered more than double our num- 
ber, they never ventured an attack, and a retreat, apparently 
threatening total destruction, from its varied dangers, was 
accomplished without the loss of a single man. At Strath- 
bogie we halted but a short space, for finding no obstruction 
in our path, we hastened southward, in the direction of In- 
verury; there we pitched the tent for the king, and, taking 
advantage of a natural fortification, dispersed our men 
around it, still in a compact square. Soon after this had 
been accomplished, news was received that our foes were 
concentrating their numerous forces at Old Meldrum, 
scarcely two miles from us, and consequently we must hold 
ourselves in constant readiness to receive their attack. 

“ Well, the news that the enemy was so near us might 
not perhaps have been particularly pleasing, had they not 
been more than balanced by the conviction — far more pre- 
cious than a large reinforcement, for in itself it was a host 
— the king was recovering. Yes, scarcely as we dared hope, 
much less believe it, the disease, which had fairly baffled all 
the leech’s art, which had hung over our idolized monarch so 


324 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


long, at length showed symptoms of giving way, and there 
was as great rejoicing in the camp as if neither danger nor 
misfortune could assail us more; a new spirit sparkled in 
every eye, as if the awakening lustre in the Bruce’s glance 
the still faint, yet thrilling accents of a voice we had feared 
was hushed forever, had lighted on every heart, and kindled 
anew their slumbering fire. One day, Lord Edward, the 
Earl of Lennox, and a gallant party, were absent scouring 
the country about half a mile round our entrenchments, and 
in consequence, one side of our square was more than usu- 
ally open, but we did not think it signified, for there were 
no tidings of the enemy; well, this day the king had called 
me to him, and bade me relate the particulars of the retreat, 
which I was proud enough to do, my masters, and which 
of you would not be, speaking as I did with our gallant sov- 
ereign as friend with friend.” 

“ Aye, and does he not make us all feel this ? ” burst 
simultaneously from many voices ; “ does he not speak, and 
treat us all as if we were his friends, and not his subjects 
only? Thine was a proud task, good Murdoch, but which 
of us has good King Robert not addressed with kindly words 
and proffered hand ? ” 

“ Right ! right ! ” joyously responded the old man ; “ still 
I say that hour was one of the proudest in my life, and an 
eventful one too for Scotland ere it closed. King Robert 
heard me with hashing eye and kindling cheek, and his 
voice, as he burst forth in high praise and love for his 
daring brother, sounded almost as strong and thrilling as 
was its wont in health; just then a struggle was heard with- 
out the tent, a scuffle, as of a skirmish, confused voices, 
clashing of weapons, and war-cries. Up started the king, 
with eagle glance and eager tone. ( My arms,’ he cried, 
‘ bring me my arms ! Ha ! hear ye that ? ’ and sure enough, 
‘ St. David for De Brechin, and down with the Bruce ! 9 re- 
sounded so close, that it seemed as if but the curtain sepa- 
rated the traitor from his kinsman and his king. Never 
saw I the Bruce so fearfully aroused, the rage of the lion 
was upon him. 6 Hear ye that ? 9 he repeated, as, despite my 
remonstrances, and those of the officers who rushed into the 
tent, he sprang from the couch, and, with the rapidity of 
light, assumed his long-neglected armor. ‘ The traitorous 
villain! would he beard me to my teeth? By the Heaven 
above us, he shall rue this insolence ! Bring me my charger. 
Beaten off, say ye ? I doubt it not, my gallant friends ; but 
it is now the Bruce’s turn, his kindred traitors are not far 


THE DAYS OF BEUCE. 


325 


off, and we would try their mettle now. Nay, restrain me 
not, these folk will work a cure for me — there, I am a man 
again ! ’ and as he stood upright, sheathed in his glittering 
mail, his drawn sword in his gauntleted hand, a wild shout 
of irrepressible joy burst from us all, and, caught up by the 
soldiers without the tent, echoed and re-echoed through the 
camp. The sudden appearance of the Bruce’s charger, ca- 
parisoned for battle, standing before his master’s tent, the 
drums rolling for the muster, the lightning speed with 
which Sir Edward Bruce, Lennox, and Hay, after dispersing 
De Brechin’s troop, as dust on the plain, galloped to the 
royal pavilion, themselves equally at a loss to understand 
the bustle there, all prepared the men-at-arms for what was 
to come. Eagerly did the gallant knights remonstrate with 
their sovereign, conjure him to follow the battle in his lit- 
ter, rather than attempt to mount his charger; they be- 
sought him to think what his life, his safety was to them, 
and not so rashly risk it. Lord Edward did entreat him to 
reserve his strength till there was more need; the field was 
then clear, the foes had not appeared ; but all in vain their 
eloquence, the king combated it all. ‘ We will go seek them, 
brother,’ cheerily answered the king ; ‘ we will go tell them 
insult to the Bruce passes not unanswered. On, on, gallant 
knights, our men wax impatient.’ Hastening from the tent, 
he stood one moment in the sight of all his men : removing 
his helmet, he smiled a gladsome greeting. Oh, what a shout 
rung forth from those iron ranks! There was that noble 
face, pale, attenuated indeed, but beaming on them in all its 
wonted animation, confidence, and love; there was that 
majestic form towering again in its princely dignity, seem- 
ing the nobler from being so long unseen. Again and again 
that shout arose, till the wild birds rose screaming over our 
heads, in untuned, yet exciting chorus. Nor did the fact 
that the king, strengthened as he was by his own glorious 
soul, had in reality not bodily force enough to mount his 
horse without support, take from the enthusiasm of his men, 
nay, it was heightened and excited to the wildest pitch. 
‘ For Scotland and freedom! ’ shouted the king, as for one 
moment he rose in his stirrups and waved his bright blade 
above his head. ‘For Bruce and Scotland!’ swelled the 
answering shout. We formed, we gathered in compact array 
around our leaders, loudly clashed our swords against our 
shields; we marched a brief while slowly and majestically 
along the plain ; we neared the foe, who, with its multitude 
in terrible array, awaited our coming; we saw, we hurled 


326 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


defiance in a shout which rent the very air. Quicker' and 
yet quicker we advanced; on, on — we scoured the dusty 
plain, we pressed, we flew, we rushed upon the foe; the 
Bruce was at our head, and with him victory. We burst 
through their ranks; we compelled them, at the sword’s 
point, to turn and fight even to the death ; we followed them 
foot to foot, and hand to hand, disputing ever inch of 
ground; they sought to retreat, to fly — but no! Five miles 
of Scottish ground, five good broad miles, was that battle- 
field; the enemy lay dead in heaps upon the field, the re- 
mainder fled.” 

“ And the king ! ” exclaimed the knight of the mask, 
half springing up in the excitement the old man’s tale had 
aroused. “ How bore he this day’s wondrous deed — was not 
his strength exhausted anew ? ” 

“ Aye, what of the king ? ” repeated many of the soldiers, 
who had held their very breath while the veteran spoke, and 
clinched their swords, as if they were joining in the strife 
he so energetically described. 

“ The king, my masters,” replied Murdoch, “ why, if it 
could be, he looked yet more the mighty warrior at the close 
than at the commencement of the work. We had seen him 
the first in the charge, in the pursuit; we had marked his 
white plume waving above all others, where the strife waxed 
hottest; and when we gathered round him, when the fight 
was done, he was seated on the ground in truth, and there 
was the dew of extreme fatigue on his brow — he had flung 
aside his helmet — and his cheek was hotly flushed, and his 
voice, as he thanked us for our gallant conduct, and bade us 
return thanks to Heaven for this great victory, was some- 
what quivering, but for all that, my masters, he looked still 
the warrior and the king, and his voice grew firmer and 
louder as he bade us have no fears for him. He dismissed 
us with our hearts as full of joy and love for him as of 
triumph on our humbled foes.” 

“ Ho doubt,” responded many voices; “ but Buchan, 
Mowbray, De Brechin — what came of them — were they left 
on the field ? ” 

“ They fled, loving their lives better than their honor ; 
they fled, like cowards as they were. The first two slackened 
not their speed till they stood on English ground. De 
Brechin, ye know, held out Angus as long as he could, and 
was finally made captive.” 

“ Aye, and treated with far greater lenity than the vil- 
lain deserved. He will never be a [Randolph.” 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


327 


“ A Randolph! Not a footboy in Randolph’s train but 
is more Randolph than he. But thou sayest Buchan slack- 
ened not rein till he reached English ground; he lingered 
long enough for yet blacker treachery, if rumor speaks 
aright. Was it not said the king’s life was attempted by 
his orders, and by one of the Comyn’s own followers ? ” 

“ Ha ! ” escaped Sir Amiot’s lips. “ Say they this? ” but 
he evidently had spoken involuntarily, for the momentary 
agitation which had accompanied the words was instantly 
and forcibly suppressed. 

“ Aye, your worship, and it is true,” replied the veteran. 
“ It was two nights after the battle. All the camp was at 
rest; I was occupied as usual, by my honored watch in my 
sovereign’s tent. The king was sleeping soundly, and a 
strange drowsiness appeared creeping over me too, con- 
fusing all my thoughts. At first I imagined the wind was 
agitating a certain corner of the tent, and my eyes, half 
asleep and half wakeful, became fascinated upon it; pres- 
ently, what seemed a bale of carpets, only doubled up in an 
extraordinary small space, appeared within the drapery. 
It moved; my senses were instantly aroused. Slowly and 
cautiously the bale grew taller, then the unfolding carpet 
fell, and a short, well-knit, muscular form appeared. He 
was clothed in those padded jerkins and hose, plaited with 
steel, which are usual to those of his rank; the steel, how- 
ever, this night was covered with thin, black stuff, evidently 
to assist concealment. He looked cautiously around him. 
I had creeped noiselessly, and on all fours, within the shad- 
ow of the king’s couch, where I could observe the villain’s 
movements myself unseen. I saw a gleam of triumph twin- 
kle in his eye, so sure he seemed of his intended victim. He 
advanced; his dagger flashed above the Bruce. With one 
bound, one shout, I sprang on the murderous wretch, 
wrenched the dagger from his grasp, and dashed him to the 
earth. He struggled, but in vain; the king started from 
that deep slumber, one moment gazed around him bewil- 
dered, the next was on his feet, and by my side. The soldiers 
rushed into the tent, and confusion for the moment waxed 
loud and warm; but the king quelled it with a word. The 
villain was raised, pinioned, brought before the Bruce, who 
sternly demanded what was his intent, and who was his em- 
ployer. Awhile the miscreant paused, but then, as if spell- 
bound by the flashing orb upon him, confessed the whole, 
aye, and more; that his master, the Earl of Buchan had 
sworn a deep and deadly oath to relax not in his hot pursuit 


328 


THE DAYS OF BHUCE. 


till the life-hlood of the Bruce had avenged the death of the 
Bed Comyn, and that, though he had escaped now, he must 
fall at length, for the whole race of Comyn had joined hands 
upon their chieftain’s oath. The brow of the king grew 
dark, terrible wrath beamed from his eyes, and it seemed for 
the moment as if he would deliver up the murderous villain 
into the hands that yearned to tear him piecemeal. There 
was a struggle, brief yet terrible, then he spoke, and calmly, 
yet with a bitter stinging scorn. 

“ ‘ And this is Buchan’s oath,’ he said. ‘ Ha ! doth he 
not bravely, my friends, to fly the battle-field, to shun us 
there, that hireling hands may do a deed he dares not ? For 
this poor fool, what shall we do with him ? ’ 

“ 6 Death, death — torture and death ! what else befits the 
sacrilegious traitor ? ’ burst from many voices, pressing for- 
ward to seize and bear him from the tent; but the king 
signed them to forbear, and oh, what a smile took the place 
of his previous scorn ! 

“ ‘ And I say neither torture nor death, my friends,’ he 
cried. ‘ What, are we sunk so low, as to revenge this in- 
sult on a mere tool, the instrument of a villainous master? 
FT o, no! let him go free, and tell his lord how little the 
Bruce heeds him; that guarded as he is by a free people’s 
love, were the race of Comyn as powerful and numerous as 
England’s self, their oath would avail them nothing. Let 
the poor fool go free ! ’ 

“ A deep wild murmur ran through the now crowded 
tent, and so mingled were the tones of applause and execra- 
tion, we knew not which the most prevailed. 

“ ‘ And shall there be no vengeance for this dastard 
deed ? ’ at length the deep, full voice of Lord Edward Bruce 
arose, distinct above the rest. 6 Shall the Bruce sit tamely 
down to await the working of the villain oath, and bid its 
tools go free, filling the whole land with well-trained mur- 
derers? Shall Buchan pass scathless, to weave yet darker, 
more atrocious schemes ? ’ 

“ ‘ Brother, no,’ frankly rejoined the king. ‘ We will 
make free to go and visit our friends in Buchan, and there, 
an thou wilt, thou shalt pay them in coin for their kindly 
intents and deeds toward us; but for this poor fool, again 
I say, let him go free. Misery and death, God wot, we are 
compelled to for our country’s sake, let us spare where but 
our own person is endangered.’ 

“ And they let him free, my masters, unwise as it seemed 
to us; none could gainsay our sovereign’s words. Sullen 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


329 


to the last, the only symptom of gratitude he vouchsafed was 
to mutter forth, in answer to the Bruce’s warning words to 
hie him to his comrades in Buchan, and bid them, an they 
feared fire and devastation, to fly without delay, 4 Aye, only 
thus mayest thou hope to exterminate the traitors; pity 
none, spare none. The whole district of Buchan is peopled 
by the Comyn, bound by this oath of blood,’ and thus he 
departed.” 

“ And spoke he truth ? ” demanded Sir Amiot, hoarsely, 
and with an agitation that, had others more suspicious been 
with him, must have been remarked, although forcibly and 
painfully suppressed ; “ spoke he truth ? Methought the 
district of Buchan had only within the last century be- 
longed to the Comyn, and that the descendants of the 
Countess Margaret’s vassals still kept apart, loving not the 
intermixture of another clan. Said they not it was on this 
account the Countess of Buchan had exercised such influ- 
ence, and herself headed a gallant troop at the first rising of 
the Bruce? and the villain spoke truth, whence came this 
change ? ” 

“ Why, for that matter, your worship, it is easy enough 
explained,” answered Murdoch, “ and, trust me, King Rob- 
ert set inquiries enough afloat ere he commenced his scheme 
of retaliation. Had there been one of the Lady Isabella’s 
own followers there, one, who, in her name, claimed his pro- 
tection, he would have given it ; not a hair of their heads 
would have been injured; but there were none of these, your 
worship. The few of the original clan which had not joined 
him were scattered all over the country, mingling with other 
loyal clans; their own master had hunted them away, when 
he came down to his own districts, just before the capture 
of his wife and son. He filled the Tower of Buchan with 
his own creatures, scattered the Comyns all over the land, 
with express commands to attack, hunt, or resist all of the 
name of Bruce to the last ebb of their existence. He left 
among them officers and knights as traitorous, and spirits 
well-nigh as evil as his own, and they obeyed him to the 
letter, for among the most inveterate, the most treacher- 
ous, and most dishonorable persecutors of the Bruce stood 
first and foremost the Comyns of Buchan. Ah! the land 
was changed from the time when the noble countess held 
sway there, and so they felt to their cost. 

“ It was a grand yet fearful sight, those low hanging 
woods and glens all in one flame; the spring had been par- 
ticularly dry and windy, and the branches caught almost 


330 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


with a spark, and crackled and sparkled, and blazed, and 
roared, till for miles round we could see and hear the work 
of devastation. Aye, the coward earl little knew what was 
passing in his territories, while he congratulated himself on 
his safe flight into England. It was a just vengeance, a 
deserved though terrible retaliation, and the king felt it as 
such, my masters. He had borne with the villains as long 
as he could, and would have borne with them still, had he 
not truly felt nothing would quench their enmity, and in 
consequence secure Scotland’s peace and safety, but their 
utter extermination, and all the time he regretted it, I know, 
for there was a terrible look of sternness and determination 
about him while the work lasted; he never relaxed into a 
smile, he never uttered a jovial word, and we followed him, 
our own wild spirits awed into unwonted silence. There 
was not a vestige of natural or human life in the district — 
all was one mass of black, discolored ashes, utter ruin and 
appalling devastation. Not a tower of Buchan remains.” 

“ All — sayest thou all ? ” said Sir Amiot, suddenly, yet 
slowly, and with difficulty. “ Left not the Bruce one to 
bear his standard, and thus mark his power ? ” 

“ Has not your worship remarked that such is never the 
Bruce’s policy? Three years ago, he had not force enough 
to fortify the castles he took from the English, and leaving 
them standing did but offer safe harbor for the foe, so it 
was ever his custom to dismantle, as utterly to prevent their 
re-establishment; and if he did this with the castles of his 
own friends, who all, as the Douglas saith, ‘ love better to 
hear the lark sing than the mouse squeak,’ it was not likely 
he would spare Buchan’s. But there was one castle, I re- 
member, cost him a bitter struggle to demolish. It was the 
central fortress of the district, distinguished, I believe, by 
the name of ‘ the Tower of Buchan,’ and had been the resi- 
dence of that right noble lady, the Countess Isabella and her 
children. Nay, from what I overheard his grace say to Lord 
Edward, it had formerly given him shelter and right noble 
hospitality, and a dearer, more precious remembrance still 
to his noble heart — it had been for many months the happy 
home of his brother, Sir Nigel, and we know what magic 
power all associated with him has upon the king; and had 
it not been for the expostulations of Lord Edward, his 
rough yet earnest entreaty, methinks that fortress had 
been standing yet. That sternness, terrible to behold, for it 
ever tells of some mighty inward passions conquered, again 
gathered on our sovereign’s brow, but he turned his char- 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


331 


ger’s head, and left to Lord Edward the destruction of the 
fortress, and he made quick work of it ; you will scarce find 
two stones together of its walls.” 

“ He counselled right,” echoed many voices, the eager- 
ness with which they had listened, and now spoke, effectu- 
ally turning their attention from their mysterious leader, 
who, at old Murdoch’s last words had with difficulty pre- 
vented the utterance of a deep groan, and then, as if star- 
tled at his own emotion, sprung up from his reclining 
posture, and joined his voice to those of his men. “He 
counselled, and did rightly,” they repeated ; “ it would have 
been an ill deed to spare a traitor’s den for such softening 
thoughts. Could we but free the Countess Isabella, she 
would not want a home in Buchan — nay, the further from 
her cruel husband’s territories the better; and for her chil- 
dren — the one, poor innocent, is cared for, and the 
other ” 

“ Aye, my masters, and trust me, that other was in our 
sovereign’s heart as forcibly as the memories he spoke. 
That which we know now concerning him was then un- 
dreamed of ; it was only faintly rumored that Lord Douglas 
had been deceived, and Alan of Buchan had not fallen by a 
father’s hand, or at least by his orders; that he was in life, 
in close confinement; my old ears did catch something of 
this import from the king, as he spoke with his brother.” 

“What import?” asked Sir Amiot, hoarsely. 

“ Only, your worship, that, for the sake of the young 
heir of Buchan, he wished that such total devastation could 
have been spared; if he were really in life, as rumor said, 
it was hard to act as if he were forgotten by his friends.” 

“ And what was Sir Edward’s reply ? ” 

“First, that he doubted the rumor altogether; secondly, 
that if he did return to the king, his loss might be more 
than made up ; and thirdly, that it was more than probable 
that, young as he was, if he really did live, the arts of his 
father would prevail, and he would purchase his freedom by 
homage and fidelity to England.” 

“ Ha ! said he so — and the king ? ” 

“ Did not then think with him, nay, declared he would 
stake his right hand that the boy, young as he was, had too 
much of his mother’s noble spirit for such a deed. It was 
well the stake was not accepted, for, by St. Andrew, as the 
tale now goes, King Robert would have lost.” 

“ As the tale now goes, thou unbelieving skeptic,” re- 
plied one of his comrades, laughing ; “ has not the gallant 
22 


332 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


been seen, recognized — is he not known as one of King Ed- 
ward’s minions, and lords it bravely? But hark! there are 
chargers pricking over the plain. Hurrah! Sir Edward 
and Lord James,” and on came a large body of troopers and 
infantry even as he spoke. 

Up started Sir Amiot’s men in eager readiness to greet 
and join; their armor and weapons they had laid aside were 
resumed, and ere their comrades reached them all were in 
readiness. Sir Amiot, attended by his esquires and a page, 
galloped forward, and the two knights, perceiving his ad- 
vance, spurred on before their men, and hasty and cordial 
greetings were exchanged. We should perhaps note that 
Sir Amiot’s manner slightly differed in his salutation of the 
two knights. To Lord Edward Bruce he was eager, frank, 
cordial, as that knight himself; to the other, whom one 
glance proclaimed as the renowned James Lord Douglas, 
there was an appearance of pride or reserve, and it seemed 
an effort to speak with him at all. Douglas perhaps did not 
perceive this, or was accustomed to it, for it seemed to af- 
fect him little; and Lord Edward’s bluff address prevented 
all manifestation of difference between his colleagues, even 
if there existed any. 

“ Beady to mount and ride ; why that’s well,” he cried. 
“ We are beyond our time, but it is little reck, we need but 
spur the faster, which our men seem all inclined to do. 
What news? why, none since we parted, save that his grace 
has resolved on the siege of Perth without further delay.” 

“Nay, but that is news, so please you,” replied Sir 
Amiot. When I parted from his grace, there was not talk 
of it.” 

“ There was talk of it, but no certainty ; for our royal 
brother kept his own counsel, and spoke not of this much- 
desired event till his way lay clear before him. There have 
been some turbulent spirits in the camp — your humble 
servant, this black lord, and Bandolph among them — who 
in truth conspired to let his grace know no peace by night 
or day till this object was attained; but our prudent mon- 
arch gave us little heed till his wiser brain arranged the 
matters we but burned to execute.” 

“ And what, think you, fixed this resolve ? ” 

“ Simply that for a time we are clear of English thieves 
and Norman rogues, and can march northward, and sit 
down before Perth without fear of being called southward 
again. Edward will have enow on his hands to keep his 
own frontiers from invasion; ’twill be some time ere he 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


333 


see the extent of our vengeance, and meanwhile our drift is 
gained.” 

“ Aye, it were a sin and crying shame to let Perth re- 
main longer in English hands,” rejoined Douglas; “ strong- 
ly garrisoned it may be ; but what matter ? ” 

“ What matter ! why, ’tis great matter,” replied Sir Ed- 
ward, joyously. “ What glory were it to sit down before a 
place and take it at first charge? No, give me good fight- 
ing, tough assault, and brave defence. Think you I would 
have so urged the king, did I not scent a glorious struggle 
before the walls? Strongly garrisoned! I would not give 
one link of this gold chain for it, were it not. But a truce 
to this idle parley; we must make some miles ere nightfall. 
Sir Knight of the Branch, do your men need further rest? 
if not, give the word, and let them fall in with their com- 
rades, and on.” 

“ Whither?” demanded Sir Amiot, as he gave the re- 
quired orders. “ Where meet we the king ? ” 

“ In the Glen of Auchterader, south of the Erne. Lady 
Campbell and Isoline await us there, with the troops left as 
their guard at Dumbarton. So you perceive our friend 
Lord Douglas here hath double cause to use the spur ; times 
like these afford little leisure for wooing, and such love- 
stricken gallants as himself must e’en make the most of 
them.” 

“ And trust me for doing so,” laughingly rejoined Doug- 
las. “ Scoff at me as you will, Edward, your time will 
come.” 

“Not it,” answered the warrior; “glory is my mistress. 
I love better to clasp my true steel than the softest and fair- 
est hand in Christendom; to caress my noble steed and 
twine my hand thus in his flowing mane, and feel that he 
bears me gallantly and proudly wherever my spirit lists, 
than to press sweet kisses on a rosy lip, imprisoned by a 
woman’s smile.” 

“Nay, shame on thee! ” replied Douglas, still jestingly. 
“ Thou a true knight, and speak thus ; were there not other 
work to do, I would e’en run a tilt with thee, to compel thee 
to forswear thy foul treason against the fair.” 

“ Better spend thy leisure in wooing Isoline ; trust me, 
she will not be won ere wooed. How now, Sir Knight of 
the Branch, has the fiend melancholy taken possession of 
thee again? give her a thrust with thy lance, good friend, 
and unseat her. Come, soul of fire as thou art in battle, 
why dost thou mope in ashes in peace? Thou speakest 


334 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


neither for nor against these matters of love; wilt woo or 
scorn the little god ? ” 

“ Perchance both, perchance neither,” replied the knight, 
and his voice sounded sadly, though he evidently sought to 
speak in jest. He had fallen back from the side of Douglas 
during the previous conversation, but the flashing eye de- 
noted that it had passed not unremarked. He now rode up 
to the side of Lord Edward, keeping a good spear’s length 
from Lord James, and their converse turning on martial 
subjects, became more general. Their march being per- 
formed without any incident of note, we will, instead of 
following them, take a brief retrospective glance on those 
historical events which had so completely and gloriously 
turned the fate of Scotland and her patriots, in those five 
years which the thread of our narrative compels us to leave 
a blank. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

Changed indeed was the aspect of Scotland and the for- 
tunes of her king, in the autumn of 1311, from what we 
last beheld them, at the close of 1306. Then heavier and 
blacker had the wings of the tempest enshrouded them; 
night — the awful night of slavery, persecution, and tyranny 
— had closed around them, without one star in her ebon 
mantle, one little ray to penetrate the thick mists, and 
breathe of brighter things. But now hope, hand in hand 
with liberty, stood on the broad fields and fertile glens of 
Scotland ; her wings unloosed and bright ; her aspect full of 
smiles, of love; her voice thrilling to every Scotsman’s 
heart, and nerving him with yet stronger energy, even when 
freedom was attained. One by one had stars of resplen- 
dent lustre shone through the misty veil of night; one by 
one had mists and clouds rolled up and fled, and the pure 
and spangled heavens looked down upon the free. The 
day-star was lit, the sun of glory had arisen, and Robert 
Bruce, in the autumn of 1311, was king in something more 
than name! 

Yet not without the most persevering toil, the most un- 
exampled patience, the most determined resolution, fore- 
sight, and self-control, not without a self-government of 
temper, passion, spirit, which man has seldom equalled, and 


THE DAYS OF BKUCE. 


335 


most certainly never surpassed, had these things been ac- 
complished. Destined in the end to be the savior of his 
country, it did indeed seem as if that same Almighty power 
who so destined him, who turned even his one evil deed to 
good, had manifested His judgment and His power to him, 
as to His servants of olden time. Fearfully was that in- 
voluntary crime chastised, ere power and glory, even free- 
dom was vouchsafed. His own sufferings, exile, persecu- 
tion, defeat, the constant danger of his life, would have 
been in themselves sufficient evidence of an all-seeing 
Judge; but in the death, the cruel death of too many of his 
noble friends, men whose fidelity and worth had twined 
them round his very heart-strings, whose loss was fraught 
with infinitely deeper anguish than his own individual 
woes, we may trace still clearer the hand of vengeance, 
tempered still with long-suffering, yet unending mercy. 

From the time of his landing in Scotland, called there 
as his contemporaries declare by a supernatural signal from 
Turnberry Head, the success of the Bruce certainly may be 
said to commence ; though it was not till the death of their 
powerful enemy, Edward of England, in July, 1307, that the 
Scottish people permitted themselves to hope and feel their 
chains were falling, and they might yet be free. 

Accustomed to elude the enemy by dispersing his men 
into small parties, the Bruce had repeatedly conquered much 
greater numbers than his own, and spread universal alarm 
amid the English, by the suddenness and extraordinary 
skill of his military movements; that these dispersions re- 
peatedly perilled his own life King Bobert never heeded. 
His own courage and foresight and the unwavering fidelity 
of his followers so frequently interposed between himself 
and treachery, that at length danger itself became little 
more than excitement and adventure. The victory of Lou- 
dun Hill amply revenged on Pembroke the defeat at Meth- 
ven, compelling both him and the Earl of Gloucester to re- 
treat to Ayrshire; and from the splendor which accrued 
from it on the arms of the Bruce, obtained him the yet more 
desirable advantage of strong reinforcements of men, arms, 
and treasure, and enabled him to pursue his success, by 
driving the English back almost to the borders of their own 
land. Skirmish after skirmish, battle after battle followed, 
carried on with such surpassing skill and courage by the 
Bruce, that his call to battle was at length hailed by his men 
as a summons to victory. Finished in all the exercises of 
cliivarly in the court of Edward, in the wisdom, prudence, 


336 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


and tactics of a general, Robert Bruce had bought his ex- 
perience, and was in consequence yet more fitted for the im- 
portant post he filled, at the same time that his dazzling, 
chivalric qualities gained him at once the admiration and 
confidence of his people. 

Although perchance it was not till the momentous words 
“ Edward is dead ” rang through Scotland with clarion 
tongue, and thrilled to the hearts of her sons, that even the 
most lukewarm started from their sluggish sleep, girded 
their swords to their sides, and hastened to join their right- 
ful king, and yet more hope and courage and enthusiasm 
fired the breasts of her already devoted patriots, yet enough 
had been already accomplished by the Bruce to fill the last 
moments of the dying king with the bitterest emotions of 
disappointed ambition, hatred, and revenge. 

Erom Burgh- upon- Sands, where his strength had so 
drooped he could not proceed further, despite his fixed re- 
solve to hurl fire and sword on the only land which had 
dared his power — where the sovereign of England lay await- 
ing his last hour — the hills of Scotland were visible, and he 
felt that land was free ! that the toil, the waste, the dreams 
of twenty years were vain; the vision of haughty ambition, 
of grasping power, had fled forever. Death was on his 
heart, and Scotland was unconquered, and would be glori- 
ous yet. He felt, he knew this ; for in this hour of waning 
power, of fading life, fell the chains of Scotland. His in- 
structions to his son, partaking as they do infinitely less of 
a civilized and enlightened monarch (for such was Edward, 
ere ambition crept into his soul) than of the barbarous cus- 
toms of a savage chief, have betrayed to posterity that such 
were his feelings. The imbecile, uncertain character of the 
prince was too well known for his father to place any re- 
liance upon him, even if his last commands were obeyed, 
and one little month after his death sufficed to prove both 
to English and Scotch that the prognostics of each were 
verified. 

Sir John de Bretagne, Earl of Richmond, and the Earl 
of Pembroke were alternately named guardians of Scot- 
land by the fickle Edward, who, satisfying his conscience 
with that measure, hastened back to London, there to enjoy 
in luxurious peace the society of Gaveston and other fa- 
vorites, bearing with him the dead body of his father, whose 
last commands he thought fit, perhaps with some degree of 
wisdom, to disobey. 

King Robert, however, perceiving that the Scottish 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


337 


guardians were collecting a much larger army than would 
permit him to stand the brunt of battle, thought it wiser to 
lure them to the northern districts of Scotland, where their 
forces could not be so easily increased, and where their total 
ignorance of the ground would ably assist his measures 
against them. James of Douglas he left in Ettrick, to 
continue the struggle there, and nobly did that gallant sol- 
dier execute his trust. It was during this war in the north 
that the illness of the king, the insult of his foes, and the 
harrying of Buchan took place, as described by old Murdoch 
in the previous chapter. The citadels of Aberdeen, Forfar, 
and others of equal strength and importance, surrendered 
and were dismantled ; and perceiving the most brilliant suc- 
cess had crowned his efforts in the north, he divided his 
forces, dispatching them under able leaders in various di- 
rections, thus to separate the English invaders, and prevent 
their compelling him to give them battle in a body, as at 
Ealkirk, and deciding the fate of Scotland at a blow. 

Douglas, Tweedale, and Ettrick were conquered by Lord 
James; and Galloway, despite the furious defence of its 
native chiefs and English allies, aided by the savage nature 
of its country, was finally brought into subjection by Ed- 
ward Bruce, to whose wild and reckless spirit this daring 
warfare had been peculiarly congenial. On every side suc- 
cess had crowned the Bruce, and then it was he projected 
and carried into effect his long-desired vengeance on the 
Lords of Lorn, whose persecuting enmity demanded such 
return. Their defeat was total, despite their advantageous 
situation in the formidable pass of Cruachan Ben, where 
that great mountain sinks down to the banks of Loch Awe, 
a road full of precipices on one side, and a deep lake on the 
other. The Bruce, following his usual admirable plan of 
tactics, sent Douglas with some light troops to surround the 
mountain and turn the pass, himself covering the move- 
ment by a threatened assault in front, and thus attacked in 
rear, flank, and van at once, all advantage of ground was 
lost, and the Lords of Lorn, both father and son, compelled 
to escape by sea, leaving the greater part of their clan dead 
upon the field. 

The vacillating measures of the second Edward in vain 
endeavored to remedy these evils; the barons of England, 
already disgusted at his unjust preference of upstart min- 
ions, either obeyed the royal commands for fresh musters of 
forces or neglected them, according to individual pleasure. 
Their own interests kept them in England ; for, mistrusting 


338 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


their king and hating his favorites, they imagined their 
absence would but increase the power of the latter, and 
effectually remove the former from their control. Scotland 
was now a secondary object with almost all the English 
nobles; their own prerogatives, their own private interests 
were at stake. 

Meanwhile, the measures of that now liberated land pro- 
ceeded with a steadiness, a wisdom, presenting a forcible 
contrast to those of her former captors. For the first time 
for many troubled years the estates of the kingdom assem- 
bled, and by a large and powerful body of representatives 
declared, in all proper and solemn form, that Edward’s 
previous award of the crown to John Baliol was illegal, un- 
just, and void; that the late deceased Lord of Annandale 
was the only heir to the crown, and, in consequence, his 
grandson, Bobert the Bruce, alone could be recognized as 
king; and all who dared dispute or deny this right were 
denounced, and would henceforward be prosecuted as trai- 
tors and abetters of treason; and not alone by the laity 
were these important matters acknowledged and pro- 
claimed, the clergy of the kingdom, braving the bull of 
excommunication once promulgated against him, issued a 
solemn charge to their spiritual flocks, desiring them to 
recognize the Bruce as their sovereign. 

Boused at length into action, Edward assembled a for- 
midable army at Berwick, and entered Scotland, but too 
late in the season to effect any movement of consequence. 
Bruce, as usual, avoiding any decisive action, harassed 
their march, cut off their provisions, desolated the country, 
so that it could present nothing but waste and barren des- 
erts to its invaders, and finally caused Edward to retreat to 
England out of all patience, and eager to solace himself 
with his queen and his favorites at Carlisle. A second, a 
third, and fourth expedition were planned and dispatched 
against Scotland, but all equally in vain; the last headed 
by Gaveston, who, despite his foppery and presumption, 
had all the qualities of a brave knight and skilful general, 
advanced as far as the Frith of Forth, finding, however, 
neither man, woman, nor child, cattle nor provender — all as 
usual was desolate. The villagers, emulating the courage 
and forbearance of their sovereign, retreated without a mur- 
mur to the Highlands, carrying with them all of their prop- 
erty that permitted removal, although the extreme severity 
of the season, and the various inconveniences resulting from 
a residence of some length amid morasses and precipices. 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


339 


rendered this test of their patriotism more than ordinarily 
severe. 

It was in retaliation for these invasions King Robert 
planned and executed that expedition against England, 
from which Sir Amiot and his men were leisurely returning 
at the commencement of this chapter. He waited but to 
see his own land cleared of her invaders, and then like a 
mountain torrent poured down his fury on the English 
frontier. It appeared as if Gaveston had scarce returned to 
his master, with the assurance that the Scottish king was 
too far north for any new disturbance at present, when the 
news of his appearance on the very threshold of England 
burst on the astounded king. It was vain to think of resist- 
ing him. For fifteen days the Bruce remained in England, 
paying in kind the injuries so unjustly inflicted upon him- 
self ; and on returning found the little loss he had sustained 
amply compensated by the increase of animation and glee 
in his troops, and yet more substantially by the treasure and 
money amassed, for the northern counties had found it 
necessary to purchase his forbearance; and Robert rejoiced 
that it was so, simply that it enabled him in a measure to 
repay his devoted subjects for the loyalty they had ever 
manifested toward his person, and the aid they had hastened 
to bestow in the liberation of their land. 

With regard to the other characters of our tale, so little 
change had taken place in their fates since we last beheld 
them, and that change will so easily be traced in the suc- 
ceeding pages, that there is little need to linger upon them. 

There was still a shade of sadness tingeing the royal 
scutcheon of the Bruce. His wife, his child, his sisters, and 
other near and dear relatives and friends, were still in the 
power of Edward, and from the desultory warfare, to which 
the interests of his country compelled him to adhere, there 
seemed as yet but little chance of his effecting their libera- 
tion. Ransom so high as Edward would demand (if indeed 
he would accept it at all) the Bruce could not pay, without 
anew impoverishing his kingdom, and laying heavy taxes 
on a people ever ready to sacrifice their all for him, and this 
his character was far too exalted and unselfish even to think 
upon. The only means of obtaining their freedom was an 
exchange of prisoners, and this was ineffectual. He de- 
feated, harassed, and compelled the English to evacuate 
Scotland, but, from his avoidance of general engagements, 
he had taken no prisoners whose rank and consequence 
would weigh against the detention of his relatives; and 


340 


THE DAYS OF BEUCE. 


there was one amid those captives whom, from most unjusti- 
fiable severity and degradation of a cruel public confinement, 
the Bruce and his noble followers burned to release. But 
the citadel of Berwick, where they believed the Countess of 
Buchan still to be immured — for the cage was still appar- 
ent — by its immense strength, numerous garrison, and 
closely fortified town, was as yet an object of desire indeed, 
but one not possible to be attained, and from that very 
feeling the Bruce had rather avoided it in his invasion of 
England. 

The Earl of Buchan, it was rumored and believed, had 
died in England, and was imagined to have left his title 
and estates to his son, who, soon after the death of Ed- 
ward I., had been heard of in Scotland as having become a 
devoted adherent to the court, and more particularly to the 
person, of King Edward, who lavished on him so many fa- 
vors, that it was supposed his former boyish folly in adher- 
ing to the Bruce and Scotland was entirely forgotten. 
Humor said he had often been heard bitterly to regret the 
past, and had solemnly sworn fidelity to England. In what 
manner this rumor was regarded by King Bobert and his 
patriots our tale will show, as also the fate of Agnes. 

The Earl of Fife, loving better the rich costume, merry 
idlesse, and sumptuous fare of a courtier, than the heavy 
armor, fatiguing duties, and hasty meals of a knight, 
thought it wiser to forswear his dislike to King Bobert, the 
pursuance of it involving a vast deal of fatigue and danger, 
and consequently remained a neutral in King Edward’s 
court, keeping aloof from all the quarrels of Gaveston and 
the barons, and too much wrapt in his own luxurious selfish- 
ness to be heeded by either party. 

Gloucester and his noble wife belong to history, and con- 
sequently not at present to us. We shall meet the latter 
again in a future page. 

Amid all his wanderings and various fortunes, two of 
the gentler sex, his own near relatives, had remained con- 
stant to the Bruce. Now, indeed, their train and attendants 
were much increased; but there had been times when the 
Lady Campbell and her daughter Isoline had been alone of 
their sex beside their king. It will be remembered that, 
when that painful parting took place between the patriot 
warriors and those devoted females who had attended them 
so long, Sir Niel Campbell, the better to appeal to the chiv- 
alric feelings of the Lord of the Isles, had consented to his 
wife’s earnest solicitation to accompany him ; and also that, 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


341 


despite all his and King Robert's entreaty to the contrary, 
she had insisted on herself and Isoline sharing their hard- 
ships in the retreat of Rathlin, instead of accepting the 
eagerly proffered hospitality of the island chief. They were, 
indeed, as ministering spirits in that dreary retreat, ever 
ready to tend, soothe, cheer, to give bright example of pa- 
tient fortitude, when that of the sterner sex seemed failing ; 
they either suffered not more than their companions, or 
refused to own or show that they did, for Isoline, although 
at first a mere child in years, gave good evidence that all 
the noble and endearing qualities of her mother's line were 
hers; and when the fate of the queen and her attendants 
was made known, how earnestly did not only Sir Kiel but 
good king Robert himself rejoice that tw T o at least of those 
near and dear relatives were spared them, and as earnestly 
wished they had never parted from the rest ! 

Fatiguing and precarious as their life was in the Bruce's 
train, compelled at a moment's warning to march from a 
brief resting-place, often even to adopt other guise than 
their own, still these devoted females were ever found be- 
side their king, and if Lady Campbell had ever felt anxiety 
as to the effect these wanderings would have upon the 
health and beauty of her child, they were, at the time we 
resume our tale, entirely removed; for Isoline Campbell at 
nineteen might have borne the palm alike of beauty, truth, 
and dignity, from those born and bred in a peaceful court, 
and shielded with the tenderest care from aught like out- 
ward tempest or inward storm. To most of the youthful 
knights in her uncle's camp, it had been only the last two 
years that she had burst upon them as some beautiful spirit, 
whose existence they could scarce trace to the merry moun- 
tain child they had first known, and to whom they had in 
sport taught the use of many a chivalric weapon. Ko arrow 
was more true to its mark than Isoline's; but latterly, that 
the state of her uncle's court permitted her the privileges 
due to her sex and rank, security and rest, and perhaps, too, 
that she was conscious girlhood was fast merging into a 
higher state of being, demanding more reserve, and quiet- 
ness, and dignity, certain it was these sports were laid aside, 
and her former companions bowed before her beauty and 
owned its spell, as to one they had only lately known. One 
indeed saw but the perfecting of charms he had long ad- 
mired ; yet few suspected the Lord J ames of Douglas, whose 
every thought and speech seemed of war and freedom, had 
time for dreams of love, and that her image had dwelt next 


342 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


his heart, even when her preceptor in all chivalric sports, her 
guardian in their hasty marches, the gallant knight who was 
ever the first to find some suitable halting-place, collect fresh 
heath for her couch, some dainty of fish or fowl to woo her 
to the rustic board, services she had ever met with a joyous 
jest or thrilling laugh, or some deed of merry mischief. 
Within the last two years her manner to him too had 
changed; but it differed not an atom from that with which 
she ever treated all the other knights, and Douglas could not, 
therefore, as he wished, and at first hoped, argue favorably 
for himself. 

Of one other personage, as a character totally unknown 
to our former pages, we must say a few words, and then, 
craving pardon for this long digression, proceed to more 
active scenes. 

It was in the pass of Ben Cruachan, in the fierce strug- 
gle between himself and the men of Lorn, King Robert 
became aware of the presence of a stranger knight, who, 
remaining close as a shadow by his side during the whole 
of the action, had fought with a skill, courage, and almost 
desperation, that at once riveted upon him the attention of 
the king, ever alive to aught of gallantry or chivalry in his 
leaders — an attention heightened by the fact, that twice or 
thrice the knight’s great prowess and agility had saved 
his own person from imminent danger. He appeared on 
the watch to avert and defeat every attempt to surround 
and crush the king; thrusting himself in the very midst of 
couched spears and pointed swords, and thus, by the immi- 
nent risk of his own life or liberty, covering the king when 
too hard pressed upon, and enabling him to regain his foot- 
ing, and press with renewed power on the foe. Much mar- 
vel, indeed, his appearance occasioned, even in the heat and 
rush of battle, for his armor, the bearings of his shield, nay, 
his very mode of fighting, distinguished him as a stranger. 

Eagerly the monarch looked to the close of that trium- 
phant day, to bring this new recruit before him, almost fear- 
ing he would vanish as suddenly and mysteriously as he 
had appeared, but he was not disappointed. That same 
evening, as he stood on a ledge of rock about an acre square, 
surrounded by his gallant leaders, and in sight of all his 
men, who were rejoicing in their great and decisive triumph, 
the feud between the houses of Bruce and Comyn, perhaps, 
adding more zest to their feelings, the stranger knight ap- 
proached, and kneeling before the king, besought his ac- 
ceptance of his services as a soldier, his homage as a subject. 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


343 


and solemnly swearing fidelity to his person and his cause 
in both these characters. There was a peculiar and most 
thrilling mournfulness in his voice, seeming almost inde- 
finably to denote him a younger man than he had previously 
appeared, and the solemn earnestness of his entreaty ap- 
peared to express a more than common interest in the 
Bruce’s reply. His services were as frankly accepted as 
they had been tendered, and warmly the king admired, 
praised, and acknowledged how much he had been indebted 
to the extraordinary gallantry shown in the previous engage- 
ment, adding, with a smile, that he hoped the knight intend- 
ed to satisfy the curiosity that brave conduct had engen- 
dered, and remember it was not customary to render the 
homage of a subject with the helmet on and visor down. 
With the same melancholy earnestness of expression which 
had marked his previous address, the stranger replied he 
was aware of this, and therefore was it that he knelt before 
the Bruce more as a suppliant, than proffering to him that 
which was his right; his helmet he could indeed remove, 
but he was under a solemn vow never to reveal his features, 
birth, or rank, till, either by his aid, or through his personal 
agency, a deed had been accomplished, and freedom given 
to one of high and noble birth, unjustly and cruelly detained 
a prisoner by Edward, King of England. 

“Nay, for that we may go hand in hand with you, 
young sir,” answered the king ; “ there is many a noble pris- 
oner in the realm of England we would fain see released, 
but ere that may be accomplished, I fear me some years must 
pass. Thine was a rash vow; did ye deem its penance but 
of short duration? I could have wished it otherwise, for in 
our small, well-known, and well-tried train mystery were 
better shunned.” 

“ My liege,” replied the young man, with an earnestness 
almost startling, “ I thought not, reckoned not of the lapse 
of time in the adherence to this vow; till its work be ac- 
complished, till the freedom of one removes all mystery 
from me, there is neither rest, nor joy, nor glory, for the 
heart now speaking to your grace. What boots it, then, to 
think of time? My honor and my life are wrapt up in the 
prisoner whose liberty I seek, and till that be accomplished, 
there is no privation, no penance in the adherence to my 
vow. I have no name, no follower, naught but mine own 
good sword and stainless truth, and the memory of knight- 
hood from a hand, bold, noble, glorious, as your grace’s own. 
I ask but permission to follow thee, to serve my country and 


314 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


my king; even in the performance of my vow, in serving 
thee alone, may I hope for its accomplishment, and in its 
accomplishment I shall do good service to thy cause.” 

“ But if so much depends upon another, and that other a 
prisoner in the power of Edward, tell me, young sir, for w r e 
may scarce reckon with certainty on human life, how will it 
be with thee an the prisoner on whom so much depends live 
not to be released by man ? ” 

“ Then I, too, may die unknown, for there will be none 
to mourn me,” burst from the knight’s lips, in tones of such 
passionate agony, it thrilled to the rudest spirit present, 
and King Bobert instantly raised him from the ground, 
bending, as he did so, to conceal the deep sympathy he felt 
was stamped upon his brow. 

“ Kay, nay,” he said, with extreme kindness, “ I meant 
not to call forth such emotion by a suggestion that, after 
all, perhaps, there needed not. We accept the services so 
nobly tendered; we give thee full liberty to adhere to thy 
solemn vow, and for thy truth and honor we will ourselves 
be answerable.” 

Vows similar to that of the stranger, nay, often made 
for causes much more trivial, were too much in the spirit of 
chivalry to occasion any drawback in his favor. Already 
prepossessed by his gallant bearing, his apparent perfection 
in all knightly exercises, and, perhaps, still more from the 
tone of touching sadness which pervaded his manner and 
address, the warriors crowded round, and lavished on him 
cordiality and kindness. 

From that day Sir Amiot de la Branche, for so he be- 
came universally denominated from the bearings on his 
shield, had been among the first amid the Bruce’s leaders 
remarkable for bravery, untiring fortitude, and most un- 
wearying activity. At first, at his own request, he simply 
fought as a knight and soldier in the king’s own private 
guard, but gradually his great services and excellent counsel 
raised him higher and higher in the estimation of all, more 
particularly in that of the Bruce, whose talent for discover- 
ing the characters of his knights, and so guiding their vari- 
ous services as always to assign them that which was most 
congenial, was something remarkable, and at length he be- 
came, at the king’s own especial request, leader of a gallant 
troop of picked men, many of whom had themselves re- 
quested permission to follow his banner, and in consequence, 
the fifty named by the king speedily swelled to double that 
number. 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


345 


Three years had now passed since his first appearance, 
and still his vow was inviolably kept, for, as we have already 
noticed, despite the increasing glory and greatness of the 
Bruce, the Scottish prisoners still remained in custody in 
England. Within the last year, indeed, he was seen more 
often mingling with other knights around the Lady Isoline, 
but even then there was no evidence of a relaxation in his 
sadness; nay, could the thought of his private hours have 
been read, men would have seen contending emotions 
struggling at his heart, both equally intense, and that, per- 
chance, the fulfilment of his vow was not now his only im- 
pulse — the sole end and being of his life indeed it still was, 
but perchance it comprised yet more than the liberation 
of another. 

It was strange that in these three years aught concern- 
ing this important prisoner had never been discovered, nor 
made much subject of discussion. Some imagined a near 
relative, perhaps a father, who had not always been faithful 
to the Bruce’s interests, and consequently the son wished to 
earn himself a name ere his own was divulged. But by far 
the greater number settled in their own minds that it was 
a lady love he had bound himself to release; and this idea 
obtained so much dominion, that almost all the court and 
camp of Bruce found themselves believing it, as steadily as 
if the knight had himself confirmed it, and thus removing 
the mystery , all curiosity departed also. Sir Amiot might 
have heard these rumors, but he gave them little heed, and 
by his silence encouraged all the vagaries of fancy in which 
his companions chose to indulge. He went on his way in 
public, reserved, sad, cold, nay, almost stern; in private, 
well-nigh crushed beneath the struggle of the spirit and bit- 
terness of soul, all, all the wretchedness combined in that 
one word — alone. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

It was a gay and brilliant scene which the royal pavilion 
presented a few nights after King Robert, his various lead- 
ers and their respective troops, had met and united, amid 
the luxuriant meadows, glens, and hills of Perthshire. 
About ten miles southwest of the city of Perth, which was 
to be the next object of attack, the tents were pitched, and 


346 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


wood, rock, and water combined to render the site as pic- 
turesque as can well be imagined. 

The king’s pavilion, which was now adorned with all 
that could mark and add dignity to his royal rank, was 
erected in a sort of hollow, formed by overhanging cliffs, 
and environed by thick trees. It was usually divided into 
two compartments, outer and inner, and lined with brocade 
of Scotland’s national blue, bordered with a broad fringe 
of silver. A thick curtain, and narrow passage formed by 
the rock, separated the royal tent from that of the Lady 
Campbell and her train, which was furnished with many a 
luxury that the English fugitives in their various expedi- 
tions had left behind them, and formed a strange contrast 
to the miserable huts and caves which, but a very few years 
previous, had formed their homes. Undeterred by the un- 
happy fate of those noble females originally in King Rob- 
ert’s train, the wives and daughters of those noble men 
who had gradually thronged anew round the banner of the 
Bruce hastened to pay their homage, and swell the train of 
the Lady Campbell, as soon as the reviving fortunes of the 
king permitted such increase. Kow some fifteen or twenty 
noble maidens and matrons, exclusive of their humbler at- 
tendants, were assembled, and by the beauty of the former, 
the dignity and mild demeanor of the latter, added a 
grace and polish to King Robert’s mountain court which 
without them, perchance, had scarce been found. 

The night of which we speak, the two compartments of 
the royal tent had been thrown into one, and consequently 
offered space enough for the chivalry and beauty which the 
king’s command had there assembled; the floor was inlaid 
with squares of moss, from the darkest to the lightest green, 
the palest pink to the deepest crimson, giving the appearance 
of rich mosaic, and offering a soft delicious resting to the 
fairy feet which pressed it; garlands of oak, interspersed 
with flowers of the heath, and supporting gay banners 
and pennons, many of which had been taken from the foe, 
hung from the brocaded walls, whose stars of silver glim- 
mered brightly and sparkling in the light of innumerable 
lamps which illumined the tent with radiance equal to the 
day. The broad banner of Scotland marked the upper 
end of the pavilion, where a dais was erected, seemingly for 
the king and his immediate family, although it was little 
needed, for they mingled indiscriminately with their guests. 
Many a knight had doffed his heavy harness, and though 
they laughingly declared they had well-nigh forgotten how 


THE DzVYS OF BRUCE. 


347 


to assume a garb of peace fitted for courtly festivity, yet 
they contrived to give themselves an appearance of gay 
and splendid costume, that might have vied with the more 
luxurious courtiers of England; velvets and satins slashed 
with gold and silver mingled gayly with the shining steel 
of the half armor which many were compelled to retain, 
from lack of other clothing. There was good King Robert, 
somewhat more aged in feature than we last beheld him, 
though but little more than five years had passed, the lines 
of his countenance were deeper and more strongly marked; 
his cheek was paler, the brow and eye more thoughtful, and 
here and there a silver thread peeped through the rich 
brown masses of his hair; there was Lord Edward Bruce, 
the only one of his brave brothers left him out of four ; and 
there were Randolph, Fitzalan, the Frasers, and Lennox, 
forgetting his age to enjoy to the full the scene before him; 
Hay, and others of equal note, and Douglas, despite his 
swarthy complexion and irregular features, possessing such 
winning courtesy, such chivalric ease and grace of mien, 
as universally to bear away the palm of gallantry in such a 
scene, even as on a field of war ; and ’mid these manly forms 
glided, like spirits of light and air, the graceful figures of 
the gentler sex, with soft cheeks blushing beneath the con- 
sciousness of their own beauty, eyes veiled ’neath their long 
lashes, and stealing but timid glances, up to those with 
whom they traced the mazy dance, or loitered listening to 
tales of knightly lore. 

“ Wherefore join ye not the dance, my Lord of Doug* 
las ? ” demanded the Lady Isoline, to whom the king had in 
jest abdicated his seat of state upon the dais, and who of a 
truth filled it as if she had been born and bred a queen. 
-Many a youthful cavalier had gathered round her, seeking 
her smile, yet Douglas was now there almost alone. 
“Wherefore join ye not the dance?” she said; “I have 
seen the devoir of a son of chivalry most perfectly per- 
formed in all save this. Let not these gay hours pass unen- 
joyed.” 

“Kay, they are but too happily detained,” he answered; 
“ gentle lady, they were indeed joyless passed other than by 
thy side.” 

“Kay, my good lord, in yon fair crowd methinks there 
are many would give dearer reward for your chivalric hom- 
age than ever can Isoline.” 

“ Dearer reward — that, lady, cannot be,” replied the 
knight, in a lower tone, and refusing to discover any mean- 
23 


348 


THE BAYS OF BRUCE. 


ing in her words farther than the hour’s badinage. 
“ Knowest thou not the smile that’s hardly won is far more 
precious than that willingly bestowed ? ” 

“ A woman’s mood, my lord, is a most weary study ; and 
be assured, the walls of thine own fortress are more easily 
won than a smile withheld. Ah, by the way, there was some 
tale of that redoubted castle, which, like the phmnix, is ever 
rising from the ashes in which your prowess hurls it. I 
would fain hear from your own lips, for I believe not all 
they tell me ; it was unlike my Lord of Douglas.” 

“ What do they tell ? ” demanded the knight, with some- 
thing like fierce impatience. “ What dare they tell thee 
false of me ? ” 

“ Nay, an thou speakest thus, I’ve done, for of a truth 
my news brook not such outbreaks.” 

“ I pray thee, then, be merciful, most noble lady,” an- 
swered Douglas, his fiery spirit controlled on the instant 
beneath her glance. 

“ I have been merciful already, as thou shalt hear. It 
was Sir John Wilton, from whom thy valor last won thy 
hereditary castle, was it not ? ” Douglas bowed, “ and it was 
for the love of a lady he engaged to hold that terrible for- 
tress a year and a day ? ” 

“ Even so, gentle lady.” 

“ And it was rumored you knew this, and yet he fell 
under your hand ? ” 

“ And they lied in their teeth who said so ! ” again fierce- 
ly began Douglas. 

“ Now peace, fiery spirit; I tell thee they rumored this, 
but I do not tell thee I believed it.” 

“ You did me but justice, lady, and I thank thee,” re- 
plied Douglas, wfith feeling. 

“ Nay, I should have done a kind friend and noble mas- 
ter in all knightly deeds foul wrong had I thought other,” 
said Isoline, with something less of piquancy than she had 
yet deigned to speak. “ I heeded the rumor no more than 
the breeze which passed me by, nay, I vowed that it was 
false, for I knew the Douglas better. Now, then, in return 
for such consideration, tell me how in truth it chanced.” 

“ I would the tale were more worth your kindly hearing,” 
said Douglas, and he spoke with animation, for in the de- 
light of hearing this insinuated praise, he forgot the lady’s 
first pointed words. “ It does but tell a deed often told be- 
fore. I have sworn the home of my fathers should never 
rest in English hands, while I bear a sword to win it. I 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


349 


heard that again the insulting foe, despite of the ruin 
which surrounded it, the danger they well knew that threat- 
ened, had dared to build anew the walls, to fortify and put 
in train for a strong defence; I had heard this, and swore 
they should rue it, though it so chanced, that being then 
actively employed in King Robert’s service, some months 
elapsed before I could approach my native districts ” 

“ Thus rendering your task more perilous,” interposed 
Isoline, “ by giving the English sufficient time to fortify 
and reinforce. Would it not have been wiser to have sought 
his grace’s leave to attack it on the instant ? ” 

“ Kay, that was not needed; the rescue of Castle Danger- 
ous was my own business, that which detained me King 
Robert’s, and, of course, of infinitely more importance. At 
length his grace, hearing how the districts of Teviot were 
again under terror of the English stationed in the castle, 
and knowing my vow, dismissed me unasked, with about 
eighty men, whom I dispersed in all directions, to obtain 
intelligence. The news we gained determined my using 
stratagem rather than a direct attack, for it was said Sir 
John Wilton — I then knew no more of him than his name — 
aware of the great peril of his charge, was more strongly 
and skilfully guarded than either of his predecessors, and 
was prepared against all covert attacks. His garrison, too, 
were double the number of my limited force; therefore I 
deemed it no disgrace to my knighthood to endeavor to lure 
him to an open field. One of my men, well disguised, pene- 
trated the castle, obtained the hearing of Sir John, and in- 
formed him that one of the most noted followers of the 
Bruce, for whose detention a large reward and much honor 
was offered by King Edward, lay at a little distance with 
but eighty men, offering a fair prize for Sir John, as it 
needed but part of his garrison wholly to subdue them and 
take their leader prisoner. The bait took; for Wilton was 
in truth a gallant soldier, and at first spoke of sallying from 
the castle with but the same number of men, that we might 
meet man to man, but my trusty follower believing that so 
few would be but playwork for his master, advised Wilton 
to take with him a hundred and twenty, or at least a hun- 
dred men.” 

“For which deed the Douglas no doubt was grateful, as 
it gave him increase of glory,” interrupted the lady ; “ I 
never yet knew him content with an equal combat. I am 
glad I ventured to absolve you ere I knew your stratagem 
was no unknightly one.” 


350 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


“ Save lady, that Sir John, though truly informed as to 
numbers, came forth for our capture, believing us unpre- 
pared, whereas we met him in close, compact, and gallant 
array — the banner of Douglas and its lord at their head — 
ready, which at a moment’s glance he must have preceived, 
to do battle, not unto death but for the castle. Could my 
vow have been performed, the fortress gained more openly, I 
had forsworn stratagem, even such as this.” 

“ Nay, there was little in this, methinks, which the laws 
of chivalry could condemn, my lord,” said Isoline, some- 
what kindly. “ Well, then, ye fought, and this English 
knight fell; and how was it ye knew the tale respecting 
him?” 

“ We did fight, lady, and gallantly, believe me, for Wil- 
ton, conscious too late of his own imprudence in being thus 
decoyed, fought like a lion to redeem his error, and to en- 
deavor to make good a retreat into the fortress. Even as he 
fought, it struck me there was something more than com- 
mon in his gallantry, eluding every attempt we made for 
his capture; he literally rushed on death, and found it. 
The field once our own, the castle speedily and almost with- 
out a summons opened its gates, and its remaining officers 
and men surrendered. On bearing the body of the young 
knight to the castle, and stripping it of the armor, hoping 
there might be yet signs of life, a letter dropped from his 
vest, which had evidently rested on his heart, its contents 
dictated by a loving heart, trembling for the fate of him 
to whom it was addressed, while it yet animated him to per- 
severe, as his gallant courage bound him yet closer to her, 
first aroused my attention, and I demanded of my prisoners 
what it meant. Sir Piers de Monthemar, who had remained 
almost in a stupor of grief over the body, started up at my 
question, and with fierce invectives gave me the tale I asked, 
and wdiich you, lady, already know. It wanted but a brief 
month to the appointed time, and God wot, had but the 
faintest whisper of this engagement reached me, stern, ruth- 
less, as they deem me, Douglas had left his father’s halls in 
the hands of the Sassenach, rather than have done this. 
They knew me not who said I knew this, and yet slew him ; 
perchance they deem the Douglas hath no heart, no sympa- 
thy with those that love.” 

“ Nay, take not my idle words so much to heart, gallant 
knight,” said Isoline, gayly, for true to her inward resolve 
to give her visibly devoted cavalier no encouragement, she 
dared not evince the feeling which the fate of the unfortu- 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


351 


nate Wilton excited; “ I tell thee I held them as naught, 
and for these kindly disposed retailers of men’s deeds, nay, 
of his thoughts too, why, perchance they deem the gallant 
Douglas far, far too wise to have aught in common with 
poor sorry fools that love.” 

“ Nay, lady, I do beseech thee, speak not, think not 
thus,” earnestly entreated the knight, in a lower tone; 
“ fame, glory, chivalry itself, untouched by love, were like 
the world without its sun. Thou hast done thy poor knight 
justice in this deed; believe not, then, he scoffs at love.” 

“ Pardon me, my lord, perchance I should deem him 
wiser did he hold it naught,” answered the lady, more 
gravely ; “ believe a woman’s word, ’tis all too vain and void 
and distant for a noble knight like thee. But hast thou 
no more of the unhappy Wilton to tell me?” she added, 
quickly changing her tone and subject; “ thou didst digress 
ere thy tale was done. Didst hear aught of his lady love? 
Methinks had she borne him real affection, she did unwisely 
to test his courage thus.” 

“ Unwisely, perchance ; yet surely he that could refuse 
such a test of love were undeserving of the offered prize. I 
have often regretted that aught of the lady I could never 
learn.” 

“ And what did your lordship with your prisoners — sym- 
pathizing as thou didst with Wilton, I should judge thou 
wert. somewhat less than usually severe?” 

u Forgot for once the interests of his country and king, 
aye, and his own,” interposed King Kobert, gayly, for it 
was always a satisfaction to him to perceive his favorite 
warrior and much-loved niece in amicable conversation, and 
he had approached them just in time to hear and answer 
Isoline more fully than Douglas would have done. “ Gave 
them all freedom without ransom; sent them, with fair 
speeches and true knightly courtesy, back to their own land, 
without even demanding the condition that they would no 
more draw sword against Scotland. Did he not more cour- 
teously than wisely, my fair niece ?” 

“ He did as King Kobert would have done, my liege, and 
therefore did not courteously alone, but well and wisely, aye, 
and nobly,” and either forgetting her resolve, or really from 
her approval of the deed, Isoline turned toward him, every 
feature beaming with such a full and heartfelt smile, that 
every pulse of the warrior throbbed, and he bowed his head 
in acknowledgment, without the power of uttering one 
word. 


352 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


“ Loves our fair niece her seat of state so well, that she 
is loath to quit it even for the dance ? ” said the king, smil- 
ing. “ Is it not something strange to see Isoline so idle ? ” 

“ Nay, my liege, it was more befitting Isoline, as repre- 
sentative of majesty, to sit it queenly, and call her subjects 
round her to list their deeds, than mingle with them in 
the dance : that, good my lord, were all too great an honor. 
Thinks not your grace with me ? ” 

“ I were no knight could I think otherwise,” replied the 
king, fondly laying his hand on the rich, dark chestnut hair, 
whose only ornament was a natural wreath of the delicate 
bluebell and mountain heath. 

With a light and playful smile Isoline bent gracefully to 
her sovereign, who, with true knightly courtesy, had raised 
her small, white hand to his lips. The eye of the maiden 
at that instant rested on the figure of Sir Amiot of the 
Branch, who, leaning against one of the supporting pillars 
of the tent, appeared intently observing her. 

For the first time since he had joined the Bruce he had 
thrown aside his armor, but the suit he wore, though of rich 
material, was as sombre as his more warlike habiliments. 
Doublet, hose, and the short, graceful mantle were of sable 
velvet, slashed with pale gray satin, while the latter was 
richly lined with sable fur ; his collar was of the most exqui- 
sitely fine and whitest linen, but perfectly plain, giving no 
evidence that gentle hands had been employed in its em- 
broidery, as was the custom in those days. A plain silver 
clasp secured it at his throat, and the only ornaments on his 
mantle were his armorial bearings, and their melancholy 
tale, “ Ni nom ni paren , je suis seul” worked in silver on 
the shoulder. He still wore the demi-mask, which per- 
mitted the exposure of mouth and chin, and round the for- 
mer, as Isoline first caught his glance, a kind of half-sad, 
half-unconscious smile was playing. His hair, which 
seemed very thick and long, had been evidently arranged 
with the utmost care, and a quantity of glossy raven curls 
fell on either side, rather lower than his throat, behind, 
but in front only so as completely to shade his cheek. 

“ And what said these gallant knights ? — told they your 
highness of their brave deeds in England ? ” inquired the 
king, with an affectation of homage to his fair niece, which 
sat well upon him. 

“ Truly, yes; they gave fair tidings, goodly proofs that 
Scottish knights are of true mettle still — for the Lord 
James of Douglas, methinks his name will become a terror 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


353 


to the English, even as that of the valiant Richard to the 
Saracens of yore. How is it you alone have failed in duty, 
youthful sir ? ” she added, suddenly addressing the cavalier 
of the mask, with a tone and manner of such peculiar sweet- 
ness that he well-nigh started. “ Must I impeach you of 
unknightly disaffection, and deem you most disloyal ? ” 

“Sir Amiot, what hast thou done?” rejoined Robert, 
laughing, though a slight and scarcely perceptible shade 
gathered for the moment on the brow of Douglas, who, 
though at times conversing with the knights and maidens 
who passed him, still stood by the side of Isoline, listening 
to her words as if they were too precious to be lost even 
when not addressed to himself. 

“ Unknightly disaffection, disloyalty ! these are heavy 
charges, sir knight, and from a lady,” continued the king. 
“ Pray you, haste to answer them, for an thou are as faith- 
ful a subject to the present occupant of this royal seat as 
gallant soldier to the Bruce, thou art all too valuable to be 
lightly lost.” 

“We ask you then, fair sir,” said Isoline, cheerfully, fol- 
lowing the king’s words, “ and in all charity, for we hold 
your knighthood in good favor, wherefore, when other gal- 
lant knights and noble gentlemen approached this throne 
to do us homage and report their knightly deeds, seeking re- 
ward we are willing to bestow, you alone of this goodly com- 
pany, have kept aloof, seemingly disdainful of our power? 
Call ye not this disloyal, and most unknightly disaffec- 
tion ? ” 

“ Even so it seemeth, gracious madam,” replied the 
knight, entering into the spirit of her words, and bending 
his knee with humility far more real than affected, though 
to those who stood around it seemed but the latter ; “ yet 
though I fear me I can make but weak defence, I do most 
utterly deny the charge. I knew not, lady, that the same 
honor, the same kindly courtesy awaited the nameless ad- 
venturer as these noble knights of stainless names and high 
distinguished race, else had I been amid the first to pay my 
homage and report my humble deeds; I knew not this, 
and kept aloof, though my will indeed had brought me 
here.” 

“ Hay, an thou puttest so much of earnest in thy tone, 
sir knight, we must have done, extending the sceptre of 
mercy, though in truth not half convinced. Hath thy 
knighthood passed so unregarded by King Robert, we would 
yet ask, that thou dost still feel it needs a name ? ” 


354 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


“ Pardon me, lady, but to King Robert, I am a soldier 
and a subject, whose truth and worth need proof, and scarce 
a name; thou, lady, a high and noble maiden, methought, 
perchance, had demanded more, and I came not, lest it 
seemed mine homage neared presumption more than duty.” 

“ Truly, my gallant knight speaks well,” said the king, 
nodding approvingly ; “ thou must forgive his seeming lack 
of homage, sweet Isoline, be it but for my sake.” 

“ Nay, good my liege, willing as we would be to do 
thy will, Sir Amiot’s defence absolves himself. Sir knight, 
thou art excused; we hold thee faithful subject, and would 
our favor possessed sufficient power to chase all sadness 
from thy heart.” 

“ And now, sir, that ye have satisfied the Lady Isoline, 
be kind enough to satisfy me,” began Douglas, half jest, half 
earnest, his secret feelings inclining perhaps far more to the 
latter than the former. “ By w T hat right, an you feared the 
Lady Isoline too much to do her homage, wear you those 
flowers ? ” 

“ By what right, my lord ? ” replied the young knight, 
glancing at a very small bunch of bluebells and heath which 
he wore; “ by that right which Nature gives all her votaries. 
I sought her shrine, and plucked them; her grasp was not 
so firm as to deny my wish.” 

“ And knowest thou not, an thou fearest so much the 
charge of presumption, the wearing them is a bold challenge 
to all knights and gentles, proclaiming the Lady Isoline’s 
favor is all thine own ? ” 

“ What, for proving his taste in Nature’s jewels is as 
undeniable as mine own? Now, shame on thee, Douglas, 
for the charge ! ” interposed the lady, gayly. “ Thou art 
over-careful of our favor, sir; yet an thou deemest yon 
lonely cavalier too highly honored, even by the permission 
to wear his own culled flowers, there are buds enow for all 
who choose to take them and dub themselves my knights.” 

She removed the rich wreath from her beautiful hair as 
she spoke, and unloosing its lightly twined stalks, replaced a 
few in a gracefully falling bunch on one side of her head, 
and threw the remainder a few paces from her, smiling with 
an expression of the most mischievous archness, as the 
young knights, Lord Douglas among the first, eagerly darted 
forward to possess themselves of the coveted prize. For one 
moment, however, her smile betrayed a deeper feeling, for 
she saw Sir Amiot quickly and silently, as if fearful of ob- 
servation, bend down to raise a tiny sprig of purple heath, 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


355 


which had fallen close at his feet, and hide it in his vest. 
Whether the perceiving this action occasioned this deeper 
smile we know not, and Isoline herself, determined there 
should be no cessation in her merry raillery, again addressed 
the masked knight. 

“ Tell me, Sir Amiot, how fared ye in the late expedi- 
tion? our royal uncle reports marvels of your prowess, and 
for ourself,” her voice, though her words were still jest, 
thrilled in its sweetness on her listener’s heart, “ we would 
know if thy vow be any the nearer its completion. Hast 
heard aught, discovered aught of the prisoner you seek ? ” 

“ Alas ! no, lady ; I scarce had dared to hope it, yet 
when again on Scottish ground my heart sunk lower, as if 
hope had been there, although I knew it not. I must still 
strive, still struggle, aye, and hope, despite her falsity, that 
even if my sword fail in the actual deed of liberation, yet 
when the King of Scotland may demand at Edward’s hands 
the restoration of every Scottish prisoner by him detained 
in exile, his lip, King Robert’s lip, may free me of my vow. 
Merciful Heaven! who, what is that — wherefore looks she 
thus — how came she here ? ” he exclaimed, extreme and 
startling agitation both of voice and manner suddenly 
usurping the place of his former sad, collected tones, and 
he hurried question after question, as if terrified at the 
sound of his own voice. Alarmed and astonished, Isoline 
hastily turned in the direction of his hand, and though the 
object on which he gazed was no strange one to her, that 
it could cause him such extraordinary emotion not a little 
increased the mystery around him. 

It was the figure of a female, seemingly, from the aerial 
lightness of the peculiarly delicate and tiny form, the ex- 
quisite beauty of every feature, which were all cast in the 
same minute mould, the wild mirth which at that instant 
was visible round her lip and in her eye, one in the very 
first stage of life, whose only dream was joy. But this was 
but the fancy of the first glance; the next, and the heart 
sunk back appalled, for there was a light in those deep blue 
eyes, a continual changing of expression, from the height of 
glee to the darkest depths of misery, round the beautiful 
mouth, an absence of all glow on the softly rounded cheek, 
which seemed to whisper that the mind that lovely shell 
contained was gone, and yet there was a something round 
her, even as it proclaimed the loss of mind, that it had ex- 
isted, it was a wreck and not a void on which they gazed — 
and yet, how could this be? so young, so beautiful she 


356 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


seemed. How could she have known, encountered misery 
sufficient for this fatal ill? What could have wrecked the 
mind, if indeed there had been a time when its light illu- 
mined its beauteous dwelling — oh, who might answer? 

She had come within that gorgeous tent unseen, at first 
unheard, and when that low, musical laugh of momentary 
glee betrayed her, the gay crowd paused and turned to look 
upon her, with spirits chilled in their mirth; sympathy, 
reverence, aye, something near akin to awe, the rudest 
among them ever felt, when, like a spirit of another sphere, 
she stood among them, for they knew the storm which had 
caused that wreck ; the bolt which had fallen on that brain 
and heart, and buried all of mind and life beneath its deso- 
lation. As Isoline, attracted by Sir Amiot’s emotion, met 
the glance of the afflicted girl, who stood with her long, 
wavy hair gleaming as pale gold, falling well-nigh to her 
knees, forming a natural mantle around the pale blue robe 
she wore, after the first moment of astonishment, remember- 
ing it had so chanced that Sir Amiot had certainly never 
beheld, and perhaps never been aware of the existence of 
such a being before, she accounted for his agitation by the 
effect that her sudden presence generally produced, an 
effect likely to be more startling to a mind sensitive, nay, al- 
most morbid, as she believed Sir Amiot’s, than even upon 
others. But all expression of mirth passed from the Lady 
Isoline’s features as she beheld her, when again she turned 
to answer the knight; there was a sadness, a depth and 
capability of feeling in her large, dark eyes, which a minute 
before had seemed well-nigh incompatible with their spark- 
ling mirth. 

“ It is Agnes, the only daughter, perhaps now I should 
say the only child of the Countess of Buchan, and the un- 
fortunate bride, and, alas! widow of my noble, my mur- 
dered kinsman, Nigel. Hast thou not heard her tale? per- 
chance not, for the memory of that which has made her thus 
is fraught with such agony to the king, men seldom speak 
it but in whispers. Alas! its terrible truth would never 
pass from his mind, even if that lovely being did not so con- 
tinually and so fearfully recall it.” 

“ Made her thus ! — what mean you ? ” answered the 
knight, still painfully agitated. 

“ Canst thou not see ? yet perchance no ; to a stranger’s 
eyes that loveliness seems too perfect for the total wreck of 
mind.” 

“ God in heaven ! mean you the mind — the beautiful, the 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


357 


gifted mind, the loving heart, the gentle spirit ? ” He 
checked himself abruptly, for Isoline’s glance rested on him 
in utter bewilderment, and added, in tones struggling for 
calmness, “ Mean you the mind has gone ? ” 

“ Alas ! ’tis even so.” 

The knight struggled, but in vain, to suppress a smoth- 
ered groan. 

“ How — wherefore — why have I not seen her, known it 
before?” fell in stifled and disjointed sentences from his 
lips. 

“’Tis a tale of sorrow,” replied Isoline; “ and yet I 
marvel thou hast not heard it.” 

“ I knew only she was engaged to the youngest brother 
of the Bruce, the noble Nigel, whom in former years I knew 
and loved, and would have died to save ; but thou sayest the 
bride, the widow — were they married ? ” 

“Yes, the Abbot of Scone united them — at the altar’s 
foot their vows were pledged; the whole ceremony com- 
pleted, when that fearful conflagration took place by which 
the castle of Kildrummie was won by the English, and of 
which you must have heard.” 

“ Ignited by treachery within the fortress, was it not ? ” 
demanded Sir Amiot, compelling himself to speak, that he 
might conceal the emotion with which he listened to the 
tale. 

“ It was. Sir Nigel rushed from the side of Agnes to 
struggle even unto death. From nightfall to noon the 
following day the desperate strife continued, with, little in- 
termission. He was taken prisoner by an accident causing 
his foot to slip, the particulars of which you may hear else- 
where, and he never saw his Agnes again till just before the 
Earl of Hereford set off on his march to England, when she 
rejoined him in the disguise of a page; a disguise, it ap- 
pears, so complete, that at the first moment even Nigel did 
not know her.” 

“ And she stayed with him, followed him. Heroic, de- 
voted being! how little did we dream thou couldst have 
done this — but pardon me, lady, I pray you proceed.” 

“ She did follow him, in the vague hope that through the 
influence of the Princess Joan, whom she sought — travelling 
alone, and almost all the way on foot from Berwick to Car- 
lisle for the purpose — she might obtain the ear of Edward 
and supplicate his mercy. She heard the tyrant swear his 
death, that the warrant had gone, and only recovered from 
a succession of fainting fits, to return to the prison of her 


358 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


husband, with whom she remained till they came to prepare 
him for the scaffold. The Earl of Gloucester hoped to have 
borne her from the tower before the crowds had collected, 
but, from unavoidable detention, they became so impeded 
and surrounded that retreat was impossible, and the 
wretched girl witnessed all, all which a tyrant’s cruelty in- 
flicted on her husband.” 

An exclamation of horror burst from Sir Amiot, but still 
he signed to Isoline to proceed. 

“ Still she sunk not, although her only thought seemed 
the desire to repeat my murdered kinsman’s last words to 
the king ; the mind indeed seemed wandering, but not utter- 
ly a wreck. Under charge of old Dermid, the seer and min- 
strel of our house, from whom I heard this painful tale, she 
proceeded to Scotland, her aged conductor harassed by the 
most fearful anxiety lest the Earl of Buchan, who had dis- 
covered his daughter in the supposed page, and who had 
sworn she should bitterly rue her union with a Bruce, 
should track their wanderings, and, by obtaining possession 
of her person, throw the last drop of gall in her already bit- 
ter cup. He heard that he was close at hand, by some re- 
marks he had caught in their last halting-place, believed 
their persons were known, and all was lost; still he proceed- 
ed, but was at length compelled, by the increasing exhaus- 
tion of Agnes and the advance of night, to seek shelter in 
a lonely house lying in the thickest part of the woods of 
Carrick. There for a few brief hours he believed they were 
safe, when the quickly excited ear of the poor girl caught 
the trampling of horse, and though she was not sensible of 
the danger which in reality threatened her, it appeared to 
excite her in no common degree. Dermid has told me the 
agony of that moment was to him as a whole life of suf- 
fering, for no thought was in his mind save of the tyrant 
earl. Judge, then, his relief, his joy, when, instead of the 
dreaded figure of Buchan, King Robert himself entered the 
room, and Agnes recognized him at once, though the effort 
to speak the words which pressed like molten lead on her 
heart and brain was utterly useless, and laid her senseless at 
his feet.” 

“ But were they spoken ? ” murmured the knight, his 
voice well-nigh suffocated. 

“ Yes, after a long, long interval of utter unconscious- 
ness. The agony of the king, on learning from Dermid all 
that had chanced, that the brother he absolutely idolized, till 
he seemed to feel him brother, son, and friend in one, had 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


359 


fallen in his cause and by the hangman’s cord — agony no 
words can describe; for that noble spirit seemed bowed, 
crushed to the very earth beneath it, and his every effort 
vain to rouse it. The sight of him, his grief, appeared to 
rouse Agnes for the time, and with tearless eye and unfal- 
tering voice she repeated, word for word, all that Nigel had 
spoken the last night they spent together. Not alone his 
message to the king, but his impassioned dreams, his pro- 
phetic visions for the future welfare of Scotland and suc- 
cess of her king, his own joy in death for them, his fervid 
hopes for and belief in that world on whose threshold he 
stood — rapidly as one impelled she spoke; but there was no 
change in the low almost unearthly voice, no quivering in 
the eye, no glow in the death-like cheek, and when she 
ceased, voice, consciousness, and life itself seemed to depart, 
and for three years she thus remained. But for the wander- 
ing eye, the low, fearful whisper which had no meaning, the 
sigh that often burst from her breast, unconsciously — for 
she would start and look round as marvelling whence it 
came — it seemed as if existence itself had departed, that she 
lived not; and yet, oh, it was not the blessed calm, the joy 
of death, which all who loved her prayed might be her por- 
tion.” 

“ But where was she these three years ? and how, oh 
how came she as she is now? ” inquired Sir Amiot, strange- 
ly moved. 

“ You shall hear. My royal uncle, whose devoted love 
for his murdered brother seemed now divided between his 
memory and this poor unhappy girl who had so loved him, 
could not at first bear the idea of parting from her, wishing 
himself to watch over, tend her, as Nigel’s last words had 
implored him to do, and as his own heart prompted, but be- 
coming at last convinced, by my mother’s advice, that it was 
far better she should be left in some safe and kindly keep- 
ing till his affairs were more prosperous, placed her in 
charge of the Abbess of St. Clair, superior of a convent 
among the mountains and lakes of Inverness, and an aged 
and faithful kinswoman of our own. There, from time to 
time, the king and some of us have visited her, but until 
nearly two years ago there was no sign of change either of 
mind or body. Had maternal kindness been of aught avail, 
the abbess’s gentle care and love would long ere then 
have been successful, but, alas! the disease was too deeply 
rooted; and my uncle’s anguish was so fearfully renewed 
every time he beheld her, that at last, for his sake as well 


360 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


as hers, we felt death would be indeed a blessing. Look 
at him now, and if thou deemest the expression of that 
noble face even now is pain, think what it must have been 
formerly, when I tell thee the feeling with which he looks 
upon her now is absolutely joy, compared to what it has 
been.” 

Sir Amiot followed her glance. On the first appearance 
of Agnes within the tent, King Robert had quitted the side 
of his niece and hastened toward her, and he now stood with 
his arm round her slender waist, his head bent down caress- 
ingly, as her sweet colorless face was turned up to his, her 
two hands resting clasped on his bosom, and a faint smile 
beaming in her eyes and round her lip, giving both face and 
attitude the semblance of a child, whose only consciousness 
was love and confidence in him against whose heart she 
leaned. There was deep, touching sadness on the monarch’s 
face, despite the smile with which he sought to answer hers ; 
sadness that confirmed, at a momentary glance, the words 
of Isoline. Sir Amiot read all a brother’s love, all the har- 
rowing memories of the past which that face conjured up, 
and he read, too, how devotedly, how even as a father the 
sovereign looked on her, and cherished, fostered, aye, and 
grieved over that awful affliction, as if in very truth she 
were his own, own child. Where was the warrior, as he 
thus bent over her? where the triumphant sovereign, the 
glorious savior of his land? Vainly might these things 
have then been sought ; he stood and seemed but the mourn- 
ing father of an afflicted, but from that very affliction an 
idolized child. 

Sir Amiot gazed, and there was such a gush of grief 
upon his heart, such a wild torrent of impetuous feeling 
sweeping over his spirit, threatening, an he gave it not vent, 
to crush him to the earth, that the whole scene danced before 
his eyes, the very lights grew dim; he saw naught but a 
well-remembered chamber far, far away from that spot, and 
that face, that sweet face, not as it was now, and another 
answering to the endearing name of “ mother ! ” from that 
fair girl, and from — And what was it he longed to do? 
to clasp that lovely being to his throbbing heart, to fling 
himself before King Robert, and swear yet deeper, dearer 
homage, for oh, he had but dreamed he loved the king be- 
fore, now only was it that he felt its depth. Well it was 
that mask in part concealed his features, the convulsed lip, 
and starting eye indeed could scarcely be concealed; but 
by those around him such emotion was easily attribu- 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


361 


table to the sad tale he heard, repeated as it was in such 
thrilling tones of sympathy by the beautiful, the gifted 
Isoline. 

“ And the change we see, how came it ? ” at length he 
asked, though the effort to speak calmly caused his very 
brain to reel. 

“ How it came indeed none may know, but gradually it 
took place, so gradually, that indeed the final change seemed 
to startle by its suddenness. Rather less than two years 
since she became so alarmingly ill, that the abbess sent for 
the king, imagining that the last change was taking place, 
and the beautiful spirit about to be released; but we were 
all mistaken, she recovered with a suddenness that seemed 
unnatural, and from that hour has been as thou seest now, 
even as a child, save that, alas ! there is no awakening intel- 
lect, naught that may promise the summer shall be beautiful 
as the spring, the flower as the bud.” 

“ Hath she no memory of the past ? no feeling of the 
present ? ” inquired the knight. 

“ There are moments, when it would seem the memories 
of the past occasion paroxysms of agony, although the ac- 
tual cause of that agony appears undefined ; she speaks as if 
continually expecting a beloved one, looking for his re- 
turn from distant lands or worlds it may be, anticipating 
his summons, and then sinking into despondency that it is 
so long delayed. For the present, her strongest feeling is 
affection — clinging, caressing, confiding as a child’s for a 
parent — for the person of the king; from the moment she 
recovered from the sudden illness I mentioned, and the pres- 
ent change took place, this feeling appeared to take posses- 
sion of her. She will sit for hours in his tent, on a low 
seat by his side, her hands on his knee, and looking up in 
his face, as thou sawest just now, seldom speaking, seeming- 
ly quite contented to be near him, and when compelled to 
be separated, as during his last expedition into England, she 
yielded indeed because he besought her to remain with my 
mother and myself till his return; but she wept when he 
was gone, and would not be comforted.” 

“ And can you account for this affection, lady ? ” 

“ Some believe it to have arisen simply from his love for 
her, which, despite her affliction, she is quite conscious of ; 
for myself, I believe there is yet another and more powerful 
cause. I have always fancied a strong family likeness ex- 
isted between the king and my kinsman Nigel.” 

“ And you imagine she too perceives this, and is drawn 


362 


THE DAYS OF BBUCE. 


closer to him, though she herself could not tell you why ? It 
is likely, very likely,” interposed the knight. 

“ I do think so ; and more, that in the faint shadowy 
outlines which her mind bears of the past, there are still 
some dim associations connected with him as King of Scot- 
land, which combine to draw that link closer. I have 
thought this still more strongly from observing her, when 
he is about to join in battle, or expects any meeting with 
the foe ; a spirit almost of prophecy comes upon her, and she 
dismisses all thought of defeat as a thing impossible, repeat- 
ing the last inspiring words of her husband, as if she felt 
and believed them the voice of Heaven granted to herself.” 

“ And does she ever say who originally spoke them ? ever 
at such times allude to him ? ” 

“Hot in actual words; but it is ever after such a spirit 
of prophecy has come upon her that the paroxysm of agony 
returns, as if a black shapeless mass of memories arose be- 
fore her, all of woe, but not one distinct.” 

“ Is there none other whom she affects besides the king ? 
It is strange, clinging to him as you describe, I have never 
seen her until now.” 

“ Hardly strange, Sir Amiot, for the year you were close 
by the person of my royal uncle she had not joined us; 
until the king held a temporary court at Dumbarton, you 
were generally with my uncle Edward or Lord Douglas, 
and at court she was kept apart from all, save ourselves : the 
king could not bear her affliction to be seen and cavilled on. 
During the retreat to the north, and the late expedition, she 
was with my mother, myself, and others, in the convent of 
St. Clair. That she is more susceptible of feeling, of pass- 
ing emotion, than during the first three years of her afflic- 
tion I quite believe, but I know not if she affects any one 
very particularly, with the sole exception of the king; and 
latterly, perchance, myself.” 

“ Thee — doth she love thee, sweet lady ? ” interrupted 
her companion, with startling earnestness; then hastily 
checking himself, added, more calmly, “ no marvel that she 
should, thou, who art kind to all, wouldst show yet double 
kindness to that poor afflicted one, and wrecked as is the 
spirit, it may be conscious yet of that; thou art, thou wilt 
be kind to her,” he added, almost unconsciously. 

“ I were indeed no woman, were I not,” answered Isoline, 
controlling her surprise. “ I loved her when but a child I 
seemed to her, and now, in her affliction, oh, she is doubly 
dear.” 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


363 


She broke off somewhat abruptly, and perceiving the eyes 
of Agnes wander, as in search for some one, hastily ad- 
vanced toward her; urged by an irresistible influence, Sir 
Amiot followed. 

“ Sweet one, thou hast shunned me : I have come to 
chide, ” said Isoline, softly, as Agnes laid her hand on hers, 
and looked up in her face without speaking. “ Wherefore 
linger in this one spot so long ? ’tis a gay and pleasant scene, 
mine Agnes.” 

“ He was here, they told me so ; I came to him,” was the 
answer, to catch which Sir Amiot had bent forward, and 
the voice that spake it was of a wild and thrilling sweetness, 
as the carol of a bird. 

“ And was there none else you sought ? Shame, shame 
on you, dear girl ! ” 

“ Oh yes, there is one I always seek, but he will not 
come to me here. I do not hear his whisper, it is too soft, 
too sweet to pierce through tones as these — he is floating 
above me in the blue and shapeless space, and he has his 
golden harp slung round his neck, and he draws forth such 
loving, lingering tones; oh, they will not sound here, it is 
too narrow, too confined — I cannot hear them, cannot see 
him now. When, when will he come for me? he smiles so 
often on me, aye, and seems to beckon. When shall I go to 
him ? why cannot I go now ? ” and Isoline drew her closer 
to her heart in silence, for the dark cloud had come upon 
her brow — it passed, and again she spoke. “ Why wear ye 
these flowers, Isoline? I love to say your name, it is so 
sweet. But why wear these? oh, they are such sorrowful 
flowers ! ” 

“ Sorrowful, dearest ? wherefore ? Is not the bluebell 
our own hale Scottish flower, and the mountain heath, too, 
its own true emblem ? ” 

“ The heath — call ye this heath ? Oh yes, I have plucked 
it on the mountain and the glen, and woven bright garlands 
to woo back my own truant love, and chain him by my side, 
and he has hovered over me and smiled, but he might not 
come. I love that flower — it is free and fresh, and true, like 
him ; but these, these ” — she pointed tremblingly to the 
bluebells — “ oh, they are no buds for love ; he plucked them 
for me once, and they withered as I touched them, and lay 
dead and faded, and they told what my heart would be, and 
I would not have thine like it, sweet Isoline; for though I 
smile, oh, it feels such a strange smile, it seems as if I had 
other smiles once, but I know not when, and my heart throbs 
24 


364 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


as if it were not always withered as it is now, and those 
flowers always speak mournfully, but they look too fresh, 
too bright, for a gift of love.” 

“ They were no gift of love, sweet one ; my own hand 
plucked them from the dewy grass.” 

“ Ah, then they will not die yet ; but do not take them 
from a hand of love, Isoline, they will part you from joy as 
they do me. Oh, I see him sometimes so near me, I feel 
as if I could spring to his arms, and then, oh, a flowery 
chain divides us — they fall at my feet, and then he has 
gone.” 

“ Are they indeed so ill-omened ? ” fell from Sir Amiot’s 
lips, in a low yet distinct voice, as he looked a moment from 
the form of Agnes to the flowers he wore. She started at 
his voice, raising her head from the bosom of Isoline, and 
passed her hand across her brow, while for the space of a 
minute the countenance so varied in expression as to cause 
both the king and Isoline to look at her in alarm. 

“ Who spoke ? ” she asked at length, in a voice so 
changed that it seemed almost the voice of awakened con- 
sciousness ; “ who spoke ? ” 

“ It was I, lady,” answered the knight, and lifting up 
his face to hers, so that the full and tearful glance of his 
dark eyes met hers. 

“ A gallant soldier, sweet one ! ” continued the king, per- 
ceiving that the troubled expression continued, and dread- 
ing a recurrence of those paroxysms to which Isoline had 
alluded, and which often came, excited from little or no 
cause ; “ one whom I hold in high favor ; thou dost not 
know him, love.” 

Again she passed her hand over her brow, the shade deep- 
ened a moment, a convulsive motion quivered round the lip, 
and glazed the eye wildly on his; but then as suddenly it 
relaxed, the eye resumed its varying light, the features their 
unsettled yet softened play, and a low, musical laugh es- 
caped her. 

“ It was a wild fancy, sweet Isoline. I dream sometimes 
of such strange things, and they come with such pain, too, 
here and here,” she placed her hand alternately on her 
heart and head ; “ but I am not in pain now ; it did not 
last long this time. And what was it brought it — do you 
know ? ” 

“ Was it the voice of a stranger, dearest? ” 

“ A stranger ? it might be, but it was not his. Oh, no, 
no. It is only when I am alone he speaks to me, and tells 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


365 


me how much he loves me still, though he cannot come to 
me yet. But som6 other voice came to me then. Methought 
I was a child again, and such bright forms fleeted by me, 
flashing out of such deep darkness; but they are all gone, 
all gone now/’ and with the swiftness of thought she threw 
her arms round the neck of Isoline, and wept like an infant. 

“ Come with me, mine own love ; we will go forth a 
brief while and look out upon the night ; thou lovest to gaze 
upon the stars, sweet Agnes. Wilt thou come? ” 

“ Yes, yes ! it is silent, holy there. Oh, I cannot bear 
these sounds; a moment since I loved them, but they are 
too harsh, too mournful now.” 

Sir Amiot hastily and silently stepped aside for them 
to pass ; and strange was it that when the eye of Lord Doug- 
las rested with increased reverence and love on the lovely 
form of Isoline, always majestic, always noble, but at that 
moment, as she tenderly supported the bending form of her 
afflicted friend with all a woman’s sympathy — it was strange, 
we say, that at such a moment Sir Amiot scarcely saw her; 
that his look, which, if seen, would have betrayed impas- 
sioned agony, saw but one of those lovely beings, and that 
was Agnes. 

Attended by King Kobert, they disappeared behind the 
curtain of the tent, and for a moment Sir Amiot remained 
spell-bound where he stood. He was roused by the bluff 
and gleesome voice of Lord Edward Bruce, demanding 
wherefore he stood so idle there, when all the laws of chiv- 
alry were impeaching him as traitor to the fair. He strove 
to answer, but his tongue clave to the roof of his mouth, 
his brain reeled, and there came but an unintelligible 
sound. 

Perceiving such evident suffering, the kind-hearted war- 
rior rallied him no longer, and Sir Amiot controlled himself 
sufficiently to walk calmly from the tent. He stood a mo- 
ment beneath the starlight vault of heaven, the fresh breeze 
playing delightfully on his heated brow; suddenly the 
mournful accents of the unhappy Agnes fell on his ear 
again, sweet as he had heard them first. He saw her light 
form, seeming yet more spirit-like in that vast and beauti- 
ful expanse of hill and valley, clothed in the solemn drapery 
of night, than it had been even in the illuminated tent ; and 
that deep anguish came back upon his soul, heightened by 
the notes of music floating from within. He darted from 
the spot, springing over crag and bush, till nor sound nor 
sight of man was near, and then he flung himself upon the 


366 


THE DAYS OF BKUCE. 


glistening grass, and the bold, the brave, the unmoved 
warrior buried his face in his trembling hands and sobbed 
aloud. 


CHAPTER XXX. 

King Robert’s power was fast increasing. Perth was 
gained, another link in Scotland’s chain was broken, yet the 
desires of the husband and father remained as far from 
completion as ever. Some prisoners of consequence, indeed, 
were taken, but none of such importance as to demand the 
Scottish prisoners for their exchange, and the king and his 
gallant companions were in consequence compelled to rest 
content with the heavy ransoms offered by the knights them- 
selves for their release. 

Although several soldiers and officers were quartered in 
the city, and King Robert himself, at the earnest entreaty 
of the loyal inhabitants, took up his residence for a few 
days in the Abbey of Black Friars, yet the principal encamp- 
ment was still without the town, both officers and men pre- 
ferring the free scope of heaven to the confinement of the 
city. The king’s pavilion was there also erected, and there 
he speedily returned, as much for the sake of Agnes — who, 
though she would not leave him, appeared unusually sad in 
the monastery — as his own. The fit of prophecy had come 
upon her as usual, when he marched forth with his warriors 
to the storming of the city, and the crushing agony which 
followed appeared to have lasted longer than heretofore. 
On returning to the camp, however, and permitted unre- 
strainedly to wander where she would, she gradually re- 
turned to her usual mood. 

Some few weeks after the capture of Perth, the Knight of 
the Branch found himself, early one lovely morning, roving 
idly amid the glens and woods on the outskirts of the camp. 
He had sought them with no particular purpose, save to dis- 
perse the feverish sensations, both of mind and body, with 
which a restless night had oppressed him, and therefore 
found the fresh, springy breeze of October particularly 
grateful. Absorbed for a while in his own thoughts, which 
by his elastic step might be imagined somewhat less sad 
than usual, the song of the birds, the rustling of the falling 
leaves, the silvery murmur of many mountain streams came 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


367 


sweetly harmonized upon his ear, without creating any dis- 
tinct images, until they were joined by a sweet, thrilling, 
human voice, which caused him not only to start and pause, 
but dashed the more pleasing emotions of the scene and 
hour with inward and outward agitation. It was strange, 
the effect that voice ever had on Sir Amiot, alike when it 
found him alone or surrounded by his comrades, though in 
the latter case it was always more carefully and painfully 
suppressed. On most men, indeed, those tones ever thrilled 
to the inmost soul, bringing for the moment, even to the 
rudest soldier, sensation of pity, almost of awe. They 
seemed something so unlike the voice of earth, so piercing 
in their sweetness, even when their words were choked by 
tears, that they told their tale well-nigh before their speaker 
was perceived. Sir Amiot ever appeared to start and quiver 
beneath their spell, as if it were not alone mere sympathy in 
the sufferer, but that he himself, by some strange magnetic 
influence, felt the pain, the full knowledge of which was 
lost to her. 

Nor was the effect this morning less painful than hereto- 
fore; every other thought now became merged in one. He 
gazed round him hastily and inquiringly, but his vision was 
bounded by the intricate windings of his woody path, and 
though the voice had sounded clear, and at no great dis- 
tance, he could not see the being whom he sought. Again 
he listened, rapt, entranced, but naught save the voice of 
Nature at that moment met his ear. 

“ Was it a dream, a fancy? ” he thought; “ no, no. Oh, 
it came upon my heart too painfully for that. Agnes, mine 
own dear Agnes ! ” 

Another moment, and he stood before the object of his 
search, and then he suddenly paused, fearing to alarm her. 
She was seated on a mossy bank, on a wild spot, varied by 
rock and shrub and flower, overlooking a wild glen beneath. 
Her wavy hair was uncovered and unconfined ; but it was so 
fine, so golden, that it gave no appearance either of wild- 
ness or heaviness to the delicate form and features it shaded ; 
it did but enhance the spirit-like effect with which she ever 
burst upon the heart and sight. Sir Amiot watched her ere 
he ventured to approach. The deep blue eye at times rested 
on the flowers, at others fixed itself on the fleecy clouds float- 
ing flbove her, with a gaze intent, almost fearful in its love. 
Then again, with the rapid transitions of disordered intel- 
lect, Sir Amiot saw her glance fixed on a bunch of flowers 
growing on the summit of a rock near her, and much be- 


368 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


yond her reach. Her eye sparkled with sudden glee, and she 
sprung up as to catch them, but failing, he heard her mur- 
mur as a child: 

“ If he were here, good King Robert, he would get them 
for his poor Agnes; there is not a thing she wants he will 
not give her, except one, and that he cannot, for he cannot 
see my beloved, only I can see him. I would he were here; 
those flowers would charm my beloved to me, or bear me up 
to him; he loved flowers, and he smiles on them still.” 

She looked wistfully and sadly on them, and Sir Amiot, 
well-nigh choked by his emotion, lightly and hastily ad- 
vanced, sprung up the crag, gathered, and, kneeling, laid 
them at her feet. She caught them with a musical cry of 
glee, pressed them to her lips, and then to her bosom, and 
then looked, half-wonderingly, half-gayly, on the stranger 
knight. 

“ Why do you kneel to me, kind stranger ? I have no 
smiles and merry jest with which to thank you, as Isoline; 
yet I am not ungrateful. I would weave you a lovely 
wreath with them, but that they are promised to another.” 

“ Agnes ! ” murmured the knight, with the wild hope 
that his voice might startle as it had at first, but it did not, 
for it was almost inarticulate. “ Agnes ! oh, look on me ; 
am I too unknown ? ” 

He removed the mask; he fixed on her the full-speaking 
gaze of those large dark eyes; he caught her dress as to de- 
tain her, and his hand, unconsciously closed in supplication, 
but he looked in vain; her eye wandered over his features, 
with the half-shy, half-admiring gaze of a child, but there 
was no recognition in its glance. 

“ Know thee ! oh, Agnes does not know any one now but 
King Robert and Isoline. I see many goodly forms and 
noble knights pass by, and they look kindly, but they are 
like figures in a dream ; I think I know them, but I do not ; 
and thou, too, sir knight, I only feel thou wert kind to give 
me these sweet flowers, and that makes me think I know 
thee.” 

“ Look on me, look on me ! ” reiterated the knight, be- 
coming more and more agitated. “ Oh ! can it be that even 
to the voice of one who, for sixteen years, shared the same 
love, the same blessing, who knew not a joy apart from thee 
- — hath my voice too faded from thy memory — hath it no 
echo, no memory of the past ? ” 

“ The past ! ” repeated Agnes ; “ what mean you by the 
past ? Sometimes I hear men speak of past, of future, but I 


THE DAYS OF BEUCE. 


369 


know not what they mean. Memory — oh, perchance, once I 
had a memory, but it must be a strange, sad thing ; for when 
I weep they whisper that ’tis memory.” 

“ And is it not ? ” asked her companion, endeavoring to 
control emotion so as to follow her wandering thoughts, and 
turn them to the wished-f or channel ; “ wherefore dost thou 
sorrow else ? ” 

“ Oh, no ; I do not weep for any cause. * Sometimes 
there comes a sharp, convulsive pain across my brain and 
heart, and then when it goes I weep, I know not why; and 
then sometimes I see nothing but such deep, deep darkness, 
with no shape, no form, and then beautiful shadows arise 
before me, and I try to clasp and love them, but they go, 
they pass into the darkness, and then I weep that they are 
gone.” 

“ And knowest thou those shadows, sweet one — take they 
no form ? Wherefore wouldst thou love them ? ” 

“ Because they smile on me ; they come upon my heart 
and nestle there, and then my soul folds her fibres round 
them, and tries to hold them, and bleeds and quivers when 
they go ; it is strange, for I do not know them — I know not 
why I love them.” 

“ Have they no voice, no name ? ” faltered Sir Amiot. 

“ Once methought I heard them speak, and then, oh, it 
was so strange, I was in another lordly chamber, and they 
were round me, and another too, but that could not be, for 
his dwelling is in air — he was too pure and beautiful for 
earth — he bent down to love me, and called me to him; and 
I feel sometimes as if he clasped me to his bosom, and 
pressed his kisses on my cheek, though the mist is round 
him and hides him from me ; and when I would remove that 
veil, oh, there is nothing — nothing there, he has flown 
back again to his viewless home; he is sailing again on the 
fleecy clouds.” 

Her voice sunk into mournfulness, sweet and thrilling, 
and she resumed her seat on the mossy bank, and drew the 
flowers round her, and looked a while on them, then up to 
the blue heavens, and shook her head, murmuring sadly : 

u He has gone — gone now ; he only comes when Agnes is 
alone. Why do you weep, sir knight ? oh, do not weep ; you 
should be happy, for you are kind and good. Why should 
you weep ? ” 

“ Say but you love me, though you know me not ! ” burst 
from the knight’s lips, as in impassioned agony he buried 
his face in her lap and wept aloud. “ Oh, Agnes, Agnes ! 


370 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


the only being near me who might love me, on whom I 
might pour forth all, all the rushing tide of natural love 
within me — to find thee thus, even by thee unknown — un- 
loved. Ko claim on thee, naught that can awake that slum- 
bering intellect, and bid thee love me — me, whom in former 
years thou didst so love, so cling to; no joy was perfect un- 
less I might .share it — me, who shared thy infant cradle, thy 
childhood’s mirth, thy youth’s confiding love; who knelt 
with thee to ask a parent’s blessing. Agnes, mine own, my 
beautiful! oh, look on me, know me, love me, an thou 
w r ouldst not see me weep.” 

“ His own, his beautiful,” she repeated ; “ who speaks 
such words to me but one? and oh, thou art not he.” She 
passed her hand over his features, lingeringly and touching- 
ly, gazing on them, and murmuring, “ Oh, no, thou art not 
he; his hair was richly golden, and thine is black as a 
raven’s wing; and his eye was blue, oh, blue as his own na- 
tive sky, and so soft, so loving, and thine is black and rest- 
less; he is of heaven, and thou of earth. Oh, no, I am not 
thine, sir knight, I am his, only his.” 

“ But was there none other that loved thee — none other 
whom thou didst love? Look upon me, sweet one. The 
shadows that come before thee, have they no substance apart 
from him — have they no form, no semblance that mine may 
fill ? Oh, speak to me.” 

“ Oh, they are too shadow-like to resemble thee ! there is 
one, with jetty hair and sparkling eye, but his cheek is soft 
and rosy as a child, and his step as light, his laugh as joyous; 
he has no dream of sorrow, and his voice is full of mirth — it 
hath no tones of depth and woe and care like thine : oh, no, 
they have no likeness upon earth, their land is that of shad- 
ows. Do not weep, sir knight ; I would love thee if I could. 
But why dost thou ask me ? Ah ! poor Agnes hath no spirit 
now, it hath gone up to my own faithful love, and she would 
follow it: she hath no home on earth. Why dost thou 
love me ? ” 

“ I had a sister once, and she was like to thee,” faltered 
Sir Amiot, clasping her hands in his, and gazing fearfully 
in her face. “ Agnes, sweet Agnes, let me love thee for her 
sake. Think, hadst thou a brother, how he would love thee.” 

“ A brother ! Do brothers love so dearly ? oh, yes, King 
Bobert loved his. See, see, he smiles upon me; he scatters 
flowers, immortal flowers, to weave the wreath for him. 
Dost thou not see ? oh, no, thou canst not, he only comes to 
Agnes. I will go gather fresher leaves, and he will hover 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


371 


nearer then. Do not follow me, kind stranger; he smiles 
through a mist when any one is by; he speaks to me when 
no other voice is near, and, hark! he called me, he beckons 
me. Oh, I will go — my own love, I come, I come ! ” 

Her eyes were again fixed, with the full, earnest, intense 
gaze Sir Amiot had seen before; they moved as if follow- 
ing the object which alone they saw, and then she gathered 
up her flowers, and sprung lightly to her feet, looked once 
more on vacancy, smiled, and stretching out her arms, dart- 
ed lightly from the rocky platform, and disappeared behind 
some rocks and brushwood on the opposite side. 

Sir Amiot remained where she had left him, prostrate on 
the grass, his head leaning on the seat she had quitted, and 
buried in his hands, while the convulsive heavings of his 
chest told how deeply and painfully he was moved. There 
was a slight rustling among the bushes, a hasty step, but 
he heard it not, lost in the unutterable bitterness of grief. 

How it so happened that destiny, fate, or chance, by 
whatever name she chooses to be called, had led the Lady 
Isoline a ramble that morning, and tempted her to sit down 
and rest on a rock, out of sight, but within hearing of al- 
most all that had passed between Sir Amiot and Agnes. Al- 
most all, perchance, we should not say, because had it been 
so, her conclusions would certainly have been other than 
they were ; as it was, it was precisely those broken words of 
Sir Amiot which were the most difficult to be understood 
that were borne to her unwilling ear, and held her, despite 
her every effort to pursue her ramble, spell-bound where she 
sat. Sir Amiot spoke of love, impassioned, fervent love; he 
seemed to be alluding to the past, but how she could not 
catch, and darker and darker did the web of mystery close 
around him. She had heard the words, “ my own, my beau- 
tiful/’ addressed to Agnes, coupled with a wild appeal that 
she would know and love him, and she could bear no more, 
and with a desperate effort had turned from the spot, vainly 
endeavoring to reduce her thoughts to order. Could it be 
that in an unhappy, an unreturned affection for Agnes of 
Buchan had originated that deep melancholy which marked 
the young knight’s demeanor? that would indeed account 
for his extraordinary agitation at first beholding her, his 
anguish at hearing of her affliction, and now that she was 
free, might he not, in the wild unreasonableness of passion, 
speak to her as she had overheard ? But how, then, did this 
agree with the tenor of his oath, the rescue of one dearer 
than life itself; how could she connect the two? Thought 


372 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


sprung from thought, till her mind became more painfully 
bewildered than before. 

“ Am I not a fool, worse than fool, tormenting myself 
thus ? ” she said, unconsciously thinking aloud. “ What is 
it, what can it be to me ? Why am I sunk so low as to think 
thus of one who evidently shuns me, fearing, perchance, my 
favor should bid him forget former and dearer ties ? ” And 
then would she recall the wishes of her uncle the king, that 
she should favor the suit of Douglas. “ Learn to know my 
gallant soldier,” he had said to her, “ and thou wilt learn 
to love him. I tell thee, Isoline, next to the freedom of my 
country, the liberation of my wife and child, there is naught 
I so desire as to call James of Douglas by a yet nearer and 
dearer name than friend ; reward him as his high merits de- 
mand, I could not, did I give him half my kingdom. I 
would, indeed, it were my daughter that he loved, for even 
her I would bestow upon him. Then thou who art in truth 
my daughter in love, as if thou wert in blood, think on the 
joy it would be to me to confer the happiness he so richly 
merits by the gift of thee. Do not believe love only springs 
to life in a flash; there is that which riseth slowly through 
the folds of esteem, and may in some degree be tutored into 
being. Learn to love the Douglas, my gentle Isoline, and 
not alone on him wilt thou confer a jewel of imperishable 
price, but on thine uncle Robert happiness without alloy.” 
And the wishes of the king were echoed in the hearts of 
her parents, Sir Kiel and Lady Campbell; yet had she 
loved the Douglas, scarcely would the interview of Sir 
Amiot and Agnes have occasioned her so much pain. 

But we may not linger on the thoughts or feelings of 
Isoline; bitter and most painful as they were to her, to our 
readers, in truth, they would be indefinable. Suffice it, that 
though wholly unable to reconcile Sir Amiot’s manner to 
herself with the words she had overheard him use to Agnes, 
she resolved on never permitting herself to waver in the be- 
lief that he was either actually betrothed, or that his affec- 
tions were irrevocably engaged, and that in consequence she 
herself was perfectly safe, and might talk with him or accept 
his services just as securely as she could with the Earl of 
Lennox or Lord Hay. She believed herself to be clothed in 
the invulnerable armor of indomitable pride, which would 
no more dream of loving, where there was no love to be had 
in return, than of loving at the command of another. 

Ho alteration, therefore, took place in her manner, either 
to Sir Amiot, his companions, or Lord Douglas, whose 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


373 


devotion was so sincere, so respectful, yet so unobtruding, 
that she could find no excuse whatever to banish him from 
her side; and there were times, when the restless fancies of 
her ever-active mind oppressed her almost to pain, she al- 
most wished she could give Douglas the love he desired, 
and in that feeling find mental rest. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

Time passed swiftly and brilliantly for the patriots of 
Scotland, who beheld, at the close of every month, unan- 
swerable signs of their all-conquering arms. Castle after 
castle fell before the king or his leaders; nay, untaught, 
undisciplined countrymen, inspired by the same spirit, 
turned their pruning-hooks into spears, and marching forth 
on the same errand, unostentatiously yet ably aided Bruce, 
by subjugating and delivering into his hands the strong 
castle of Linlithgow and some others. Roxburgh fell be- 
fore the skill and prowess of Douglas, whose exploits rather 
increased than lost in brilliancy with every passing year. 
There was a spirit of love and hope within him, uncon- 
sciously infusing his whole being. Latterly, in the brief 
intervals which his constant absence from court permitted 
him to spend with the object, of his affections, her manner 
had appeared to him gentler, kinder; he could not indeed 
have defined wherefore or why it so seemed, for if he ever 
ventured to breathe the subject nearest his heart, her words 
bore the same tendency they ever did, never verging in the 
smallest degree on encouragement, nay, quite the contrary, 
and yet, strange constancy, Lord Douglas hoped still. That 
she could love another never entered his wildest dreams ; in 
truth, whom could she love? He knew her well enough to 
feel assured not one of the gay flatterers around her pos- 
sessed sufficient attraction to satisfy that heart. Once he 
might have feared Sir Amiot, but lately even that fear had 
departed : they were very seldom together, for like himself, 
that knight’s known and valued prowess seldom permitted 
his remaining idle in King Robert’s court. Douglas was as 
lowly-minded as he was brave; but he was not blind to his 
own merits, to his own superiority to many of his compan- 
ions, and therefore it was not much marvel, believing the 


374 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


Lady Isoline’s affections still free, lie should hope in time 
to gain them. 

The end of the year 1312 beheld every Scottish fortress 
in the hands of King Robert, except two, Edinburgh and 
Stirling. For the reduction of the former, the king dis- 
patched his nephew Randolph, with a picked band, hoping 
much from his known skill and bravery, yet scarcely daring 
to anticipate success from the impregnable fastnesses of 
nature on which the castle stood. Douglas was at that time 
engaged in the neighborhood of Roxburgh, whose fortress 
he had just reduced; other of the Bruce’s leaders were scat- 
tered in various parts of Scotland, and the king himself, for 
the time being, held his court at Dumbarton, and there, 
with Lady Campbell and her daughter, was the afflicted 
Agnes, for, as we have noticed, she never now was without 
increased unhappiness when absent from King Robert’s 
side. Wherever his rapid movements and continued suc- 
cesses called him, there did she find her home, and there 
her chief delight; and now at Dumbarton, as in the beauti- 
ful vicinity of Perth, her sweet voice had lost itself in song, 
her fair hands had wreathed fresh garlands for her love. 
Sent thither with dispatches by Randolph, Sir Amiot, on his 
arrival, was somewhat surprised to perceive the air of dis- 
quiet and confusion which appeared to rein among the 
domestics and soldiery scattered about the outer courts of 
the castle. To all his inquiries, he could only glean that 
the English had been in the neighborhood committing rav- 
ages, making some prisoners, and the king himself had gone 
forth to follow and chastise them. 

Without reply, Sir Amiot, closely followed by his page, 
hastened on, crossing the inner and outer ballium, over the 
drawbridge, and was in the act of dismounting, when, 
cloaked and veiled, attended by some followers, as if re- 
turning from beyond the castle walls, the Lady Isoline 
Campbell hastily advanced, as about to enter within the 
massy gates. The young knight sprang from his steed in 
an instant, and was at her side, with a greeting unusually 
eager, as if the delight of thus meeting her had startled him 
from his usual reserve. She was evidently surprised, but 
neither the surprise nor the anxious thought which evident- 
ly engrossed her caused her to forget the dignified com- 
posure which had lately characterized her manner. 

“ His grace is well, and will be glad to see you, Sir 
Amiot,” she said, in answer to his interrogatory ; “ for of a 
truth he is aggrieved and anxious in no common degree.” 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


375 


“What, then, has chanced? The English ” 

“ Agnes, our afflicted Agnes, in wandering, as is her 
wont, has fallen into their power, and the king has followed, 
hoping to track their course. You are ill, sir knight.” 

She had not moved her eye from him as she spoke, but 
even without that penetrating glance, his emotion must have 
made itself evident ; he staggered back as if a dagger’s point 
had reached him, repeating as if to himself : 

“ Agnes — God in heaven ! Agnes, sayest thou ? The 
villains, the merciless villains ! could not her innocence, her 
affliction, have saved her from them? Which way went 
they ? in mercy tell me, lady ! Pardon me,” he added, strug- 
gling to regain composure, “ I have startled, alarmed you ; 
but you know not, you cannot know the anguish of this 
sudden news. She must not, she shall not be left in their 
hands; she will droop, she will die. And I — how can I 
save her ? ” 

His voice grew more and more agitated. Isoline would 
have spoken words of soothing, but the first word betrayed 
to her own ear such an utter change in her voice, she dared 
not trust it further. Sir Amiot’s page alone appeared 
unconcerned. 

“ My lord, my lord, you have ridden too hard, and are 
fatigued, or this news would not so unnerve you,” he ex- 
postulated. “ Trust me, the Lady Agnes will speedily be 
liberated, wherever she may be; there’s not a hiding-nook 
of Scotland I do not know. Pray you, my lord, wait but 
till his grace returns.” 

“ The boy speaks wisely, Sir Amiot; abide by his coun- 
sel,” said Isoline, composedly, for the huskiness of voice, 
whatever might have been its cause, had passed. “ Pray 
you pass in; rest thee till the king returns, perchance he 
may bring us better cheer.” 

One glance the knight fixed on the lady; it might have 
been grateful acknowledgment for her kindly words, it 
might have been something more, but certainly at this 
moment it was wholly incomprehensible to her on whom it 
rested, and consequently elicited no reply. Bowing his 
head in silent assent, he followed her within the castle to 
the apartments of the Earl of Lennox, hearing by the way a 
brief detail from Isoline of the disappearance of Agnes. 
She had been wandering, as she always loved to do, in the 
wildest, most rocky and woody glens in the vicinity of the 
castle. Not being aware that some bands of English plun- 
derers were hovering about the country, and conscious of 


3TG 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


the annoyance it always was to her to be sensible that a 
guard attended her, King Robert had desired the trusty fol- 
lowers who had her in charge to keep at a distance, and not 
annoy her by showing themselves unnecessarily. Amid the 
rocks and woods around the castle it was difficult to obey 
this charge, and so silently and suddenly had she been cap- 
tured, that nothing but a faint, and, at the moment, un- 
noticed cry had betrayed the truth. They had sought her in 
every direction, and the failure of their search had alone re- 
called that cry, and forced the truth on their minds. The 
king, half-distracted as to the probable effect of imprison- 
ment and ill-treatment on the afflicted Agnes, had himself 
headed a gallant band by daybreak that morning, deter- 
mined on leaving no spot unsought, though, from the in- 
numerable caves and hollows close at hand, Isoline feared, 
with little chance of success. She herself, unable to re- 
main quietly under the influence of anxiety, had called her 
personal followers around her, and searched in all the fa- 
vorite haunts of Agnes, with the vain hope to find some 
clue to her fate. 

“ And blessings on thee for the kind thought and kinder 
deed, sweet lady!” Sir Amiot had murmured as she thus 
spoke. “ My poor Agnes cannot thank thee for thy love, 
but I, oh, would that I ” 

He paused abruptly, conscious that in that moment of 
excitement he was not master of his words, and the solemn 
vow of years might be insensibly betrayed. The tramping 
of many chargers on the drawbridge, the sound of the 
Bruce’s clarion at that moment announced the return of the 
king, and broke the pause of emotion which closed Sir 
Amiot’s broken words. 

Isoline darted to a window overlooking the court, with 
the exclamation : 

“ She may be with them ! ” too quickly changing into 
“ Alas! no.” 

The speedy entrance of King Robert and his followers 
prevented all suggestion, and quickly gave the information 
required. Successful it was evident they had not been; but 
from the English prisoners they had captured, they learned 
sure tidings, which, painful as they were, were better than 
suspense. Agnes was the captive of a marauding band, who, 
believing her a person of some consequence, had resolved on 
conveying her to one of the border towers to demand a 
heavy ransom ; but in which direction the captives could or 
would not tell. King Robert had returned, determined on 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


377 


collecting his light-armed troops, and marching southward 
without delay. Sir Amiot’s inclination led him to beseech 
permission to accompany his sovereign, instead of returning 
to his post in the camp of Randolph; but the latter was a 
station of so much more danger and honor than the former, 
that, though the effort was a violent one, he controlled him- 
self, and gave no evidence of desiring other employment 
than that with which he was charged. Another imperative 
reason urged this resolution. As his mysterious agitation 
calmed, he became aware that any such violent demonstra- 
tion of anxiety as to the fate of Agnes was exposing him 
very naturally to remarks which he could not answer, draw- 
ing upon him yet further notice, and perchance, exposing 
him to suspicions which were far better averted than en- 
couraged. He was thankful that it had been from the lips 
of Isoline the startling intelligence had been first received. 
He little dreamed the effect of his emotion upon her. Calm- 
ly, then, and seemingly evincing no more interest in the 
present subject than the other leaders, he listened to the re- 
ports they brought; true his heart throbbed with sickening 
anxiety, for much as she was loved and pitied in all King 
Robert’s camp and court, none, not even the king himself, 
felt for her as Amiot. Calmly he presented his dispatches, 
held a long private conference with the king, received his 
commands, and as calmly took his leave, resting a few hours, 
and starting at the earliest dawn once more for Edinburgh. 
He wished much for one parting look, one parting word 
from the Lady Isoline, if it were but to repeat his thanks 
for the tenderness she ever evinced for Agnes, and to be- 
seech her for some message of relief if the afflicted were in- 
deed restored. 

“ Yet wherefore,” he internally said, as with a sad and 
heavy heart he rode on some yards ahead of his followers, 
“ wherefore thus speak, when to her, as to all others, my 
sympathy in my poor Agnes must remain secret as the 
grave? why do I so continually forget that she knows no 
more of me and mine than others? Alas! it is my wish 
that speaks and not my reason. Even were all of mystery 
removed, might I but step forward in my own person, my 
own name, how dare I hope? Would the Bruce consent to 
her union with one of a traitor race, mingle his pure blood 
with the black, discolored stream that runs through me — 
would even my mother’s merits, her truth, her loyalty, her 
worth, weigh in such a cause ? Alas, alas ! better to die, die 
as my country’s soldier, than live as now, nameless, birth- 


378 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


less, or if name and birth revealed, both, both a traitor’s; 
revealed, perchance but to be mistrusted by the king, who 
loves me now ; shunned by her, at whose faintest glance my 
heart springs up, as if it knew not life save then — can it be 
otherwise? What is one arm, one heart, amid a race of a 
thousand traitors? Will Robert trust one as true, amid 
a thousand false? Oh, better to die unknown — better to 
die, when, as his gallant soldier, he may weep for me ! Why 
has not death found me? I have not shunned it.” Darker 
and darker, for a brief interval, grew his thoughts, but then 
there came a sudden flash upon them, dispersing their turbid 
stream ; he lifted his head, which had sunk upon his breast 
— he suddenly clasped his hands, in the enthusiasm of that 
moment’s thought, and murmured, “ No, no, I may not wish 
to die till that I seek is done. Mother, beloved, revered, 
pardon thy son, that for one brief moment thou wert for- 
gotten, the voice of thy wrongs unheard. For thee, thee 
alone, I live. I will not shun this wretchedness till thou 
art free, and then, then — if indeed the misery I dream of 
be mine own — I can but die — my fate will be accomplished ; 
but now, now, but one thought must nerve, one hope en- 
courage. Mother, thou shalt be free ! ” 

He gave his horse the spur, as if indeed the goal he 
sought were near, and ere his thoughts returned to a calmer 
channel his page Malcolm urged his steed up to his master’s 
side. The devotion this boy bore to the person of Sir 
Amiot was something remarkable. He was a sharp, clever 
lad, in reality of some sixteen or seventeen years, but ap- 
pearing rather younger; his agility and address we have 
already seen in a former page (for it is an old acquaintance 
we have here introduced to the reader), as shown in his 
devotion to the Countess of Buchan and her son, in enabling 
the king to rescue the former, and then bearing him intelli- 
gence of her second capture. From that time till a few 
months after Sir Amiot’s joining the Bruce he had been like 
a wandering spirit over Scotland, at one time with the 
king and his followers in Rathlin, at another, in the court 
of Angus of the Isles, then in the very midst of the Eng- 
lish camp, and repeatedly, when the Bruce returned to 
Scotland, did the intelligence his wanderings had gathered 
materially assist the councils and movements of the patriots, 
until at last his intelligence and alacrity became so remark- 
able, that many wished to own him as their page or follower, 
an honor, however, the boy invariably refused, preferring, 
it appeared, his liberty to the constant service even of the 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


379 


king. It was on returning to the camp, after one of his ac- 
customed wanderings, he discovered that a new cavalier had 
joined the king, and his curiosity was instantly attracted; 
whether he had found means to gratify it no one could dis- 
cover, but certain it was the influence of Sir Amiot had 
acted on him like a spell, and from that hour his fidelity 
and devotion to the stranger knight became remarkable. He 
had as usual quitted the regular line of march, and had been, 
to the great amusement of some of his younger comrades, 
and to the discomposure of the older and stricter discipli- 
narians, curvetting and prancing round and round, often 
disappearing, as he said, to examine every brake and hollow 
that they passed, and rejoining the troop when least ex- 
pected. Many marvelled that Sir Amiot could brook this 
laxity of order and respect in his personal follower, but his 
freaks always passed unnoticed, and were generally more 
productive of good than ill. He now rode up close to his 
master, saying, as he did so, “ Please you, my lord, me- 
thinks his grace were better following our track than march- 
ing southward; if it please you to put yourself under my 
guidance, you may be the first to rescue the Lady Agnes yet.” 

“ How ! what ? ” exclaimed Sir Amiot, fairly startled 
out of every other thought ; “ what mean you — there is no 
trace of such a band ? ” 

“No; such kind of villains love not the open road, as 
your lordship knows, but there are brakes and hollows 
enough to our left to harbor double their number. Will 
you risk it, good my lord? I dare not promise entire suc- 
cess, but even if we fail, it will be but the loss of an hour 
or two, which Lord Randolph will pardon when he knows 
the cause, and should we should succeed, King Robert will 
give us absolution. Those English knaves told false; their 
course lies toward Edinburgh, little dreaming how it is be- 
leaguered.” 

There was an earnestness about the boy that would have 
satisfied his master, even had he not been conscious that 
Malcolm very seldom spoke from bare suggestion. Sir 
Amiot therefore made no hesitation in altering his line of 
march, and plunging into the wild desolate country to which 
Malcolm alluded. Much surprise the resolution occasioned 
among his men, and some discomposure, which latter feeling 
became very greatly heightened, as hour after hour passed 
and there was no sign whatever to reward their toilsome 
progress; even Sir Amiot’s patience began to fail, and he 
somewhat sharply upbraided his page for wiling him on a 
25 


380 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


fool’s errand. Malcolm evinced neither anger nor sullen- 
ness, but simply observed be bad not promised success. 
But the boy knew well enough he had not reckoned without 
his host; about an hour before sunset they reached a level, 
unencumbered by wood or rock, and pushing forward, a 
band of some fifty or sixty men were distinctly visible, 
though evidently at full a mile’s distance from them; they 
were closely wrapped in the dark green cloaks peculiar to 
the marauder of glen and wood, carried no banner, and kept 
in a close, compact body, though riding at full speed. 

“ By St. Andrew, thou hast spoken rightly, Malcolm. 
Forward, in Heaven’s name!” 

“ Keep them in sight, keep them in sight, that is all we 
can do ! ” shouted Malcolm, as every man spurred on ; 
“ overtake them here we cannot, it is an open road to Edin- 
burgh. I hoped to have come upon them in dell and dingle, 
when we would have given them a taste of Scottish steel, 
but here it is impossible; only mark where they go.” 

Sir Amiot heard his words, but his ardent spirit could 
not feel the chase impossible. Their horses had been re- 
freshed by above an hour’s rest, at intervals, in the woods 
through which they had passed; a detention against which 
Malcolm loudly protested, declaring the slow pace they had 
been compelled to proceed prevented all fatigue, but the men 
had grumbled, and Sir Amiot’s interference in their favor 
had alone prevented open strife, though he now perceived 
the cause of Malcolm’s great desire to avoid unnecessary de- 
lay, and felt provoked for having yielded perhaps more than 
was needed to his followers. Begret was now vain, and 
on they went, urging their steeds to the utmost speed, but 
gaining little on the pursued, who, evidently conscious of 
their vicinity, flew rather than galloped over the smooth 
road. The castle of Edinburgh appeared in sight, hailed by 
both pursuers and pursued. Although the chase led the for- 
mer some distance from the side where Lord Randolph lay, 
and exposed them to danger from the castle, neither Sir 
Amiot nor his men cast one thought on this; nearer and 
nearer they approached the English, near enough to distin- 
guish the white robes of a female, whom their hearts told 
them was the Lady Agnes, seated in front of one who seemed 
the leader, a tall, strong man, mounted on a powerful horse. 
This sight urged them to yet stronger efforts; they rushed 
on, they flew over the intervening space; they struggled up 
the steep ascent; foam covered their gallant steeds, their 
limbs reeked and trembled under them, but, obedient to the 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


381 


voice and hand of their masters, they relaxed nerve nor mus- 
cle on their way. Nearer, yet nearer, within hail, spear in 
rest, Sir Amiot dashed forward, his lance rung against the 
armor of the hindmost; shouting his war-cry, he pressed 
forward, dealing his blows on every side, but seeking only 
the centre charger, which bore the form of Agnes; ere he 
reached it, ere his men could form around him, his oppo- 
nents had passed the postern, bearing him in the rush along 
with them; the massy gates closed, the portcullis fell, and 
Sir Amiot was struggling alone among a hundred foes, 
divided by iron gates and impregnable walls from his follow- 
ers, who reached the level space beside the postern just in 
time to see it close, and their lord a captive. 

Baffled, stung to the quick by the bitter consciousness of 
his own imprudence, the Knight of the Branch struggled 
furiously among his captors; nor did his sword drop, his 
strength fail, until he stood beside the drooping form of 
Agnes, his arm entwined around her. There was a light in 
her dark blue eyes, a hectic flush on her fair cheek, but she 
gave no other sign either of sorrow or of fear. She had 
looked up in the knight’s face a moment in inquiring sur- 
prise, and seeming to recognize the brilliant flash of his 
large dark eye, and he heard her murmur : 

“ How came he here — was it to seek me ? but why should 
he care so much for me ? Do not fear, sir knight ; they will 
not, they dare not harm either thee or me. My love is near, 
though I cannot see him now, and he will save us both, both, 
for thou art kind to Agnes ! ” 

“ Hear me ! ” exclaimed Sir Amiot, passionately, as, de- 
spite every effort of his captors to divide them, he still re- 
tained his hold of Agnes. “ Hear me, I speak to ye as men, 
as knights and soldiers, not as the robber band I believed ye ! 
Ye know not the affliction of this poor innocent, or surely, 
surely ye would not have selected her for prey. The miser- 
ies your monarch, the late Edward, inflicted on her and one 
dearer than her life, hath maddened her — robbed the mind 
of it precious jewel, and left but this lovely wreck; her only 
sense of enjoyment is in freedom, unwatched, untended free- 
dom. She can do harm or good to none; let her go free; 
if ye have but one gentle feeling in your hearts, I implore ye 
let her go free. Do with me as ye list, but for this poor 
helpless innocent have mercy ! what would ye with her ? ” 

“ Hansom, a goodly ransom,” answered he who seemed 
their leader, taking off his helmet, and displaying the fea- 
tures of Sir Magnus Redman, an Anglo-Irish knight, noted 


382 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


for his ferocity and avarice. “ Thinks your wisdom we 
have nothing to do but to take captives and let them go? 
Thou hast a child’s fancy, though a fertile one, sir knight; 
thou hast coined a pretty sounding tale in a marvellously 
short time; how know we its truth? The maiden has given 
no evidence of madness; aye, hath comported herself more 
submissively and wisely than most of her sex in such cases.” 

“ Look on her ! ” passionately interrupted Sir Amiot. 
“ Are ye so dulled in sense and sight, as not to read in this 
sweet, sad face the pitiable truth ? Is there aught there save 
the helpless innocence of affliction ? Send her to Lord Ran- 
dolph’s camp, and I swear to thee, by the true honor of a 
knight and soldier, I will rest me your prisoner till her ran- 
som and mine are both told down, till every claim hath been 
satisfied; give her freedom, and trust me, King Robert will 
be no niggard of his gold.” 

“Ha! holds he her safety at so high a rate? You have 
overreached yourself, most sapient sir; an he would so re- 
ward us did we give her freedom, what will he not give to 
purchase that freedom? We are no chickens to be caught 
by fair words; she rests within stone walls till her friends 
choose to send a good round sum for her liberation. Mean- 
while, your cavalier errant called king may amuse himself 
in seeking her through the borders ; an he deem her worthy 
such a stir, we shall but know her value, and demand ac- 
cordingly. Ha! ha! it were worth some risk to see him 
scour the borders in search of a bird caged up so blithely 
here, where his arms can never reach her.” 

“ Villain! ” exclaimed Sir Amiot, forgetting all personal 
danger in his strong indignation. “ Brag on as thou wilt, 
there were sufficient with me to give King Robert note of 
this poor maiden’s fate ere he could reach the border. 
There thou art foiled, base miscreant! and for this castle, 
lay not such stress on its strong walls, it will fall yet, and we 
shall be free, no thanks to thee or thine. Cheer up, sweet 
one ! ” he added to Agnes ; “ ’tis but confinement for a brief, 
brief while — the king will save his Agnes. But wherefore 
bandy words with such as thee ! ” he suddenly continued, as 
he felt Agnes cling closer to him, shrinking from the rude 
forms who now surrounded them. “ Methought Sir Geof- 
frey de Harcourt was commander here. I demand speech 
with him ; as knight to knight, and gentle to gentle, he will 
grant me patient hearing. Back, I say! an he have com- 
mand here, ye must acknowledge his supremacy.” 

“ Sir Geoffrey de Harcourt is a wiser man than your 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


383 


wisdom deems him; we pay good price for our will in the 
castle of Edinburgh, and he knows his own interests better 
than to interfere with Magnus Redman and his prisoners. 
But a truce with this idle parley — part them, I say ! ” 

On the instant it was done. No word or sound escaped 
the lips of Agnes, as her convulsive, though almost uncon- 
scious grasp of Sir Amiot was rudely unloosed. He saw 
her eyes fix themselves on vacancy, with the wild intense 
gaze he knew so well, but the object they seemed to search 
evidently eluded them : a dark shade passed over her counte- 
nance, a quick shuddering through every limb, and he saw 
her head droop on the shoulder of her conductor, as if all 
sense were a while suspended. He struggled to spring to- 
ward her, but his purpose was frustrated. 

“ Away with him to the strong tower on the southern 
wall ! ” shouted Sir Magnus ; and they bore him off with a 
velocity as almost to prevent his tracing the path they took. 
They traversed courts, passed many bands of soldiery, who 
were all too much accustomed to Sir Magnus Redman’s 
predatory expeditions to make any remark; and at length 
they halted at the entrance of a low square tower, formed of 
massive stone, overlooking the southern wall and the precip- 
itous crags which it commanded, and conducted the captive 
knight up several steep flights of stairs to a small chamber, 
the only window of which, though it commanded a view be- 
neath, was strongly barricaded by cross-barred stancheons 
of iron. The door, too, was thickly studded with iron nails, 
locked and double-locked upon him, and the walls of cold, 
bare stone permitted not the faintest hope of escape. 

Sir Amiot could not but feel he had been imprudent in 
pressing the chase so closely. Now that his mood was cool- 
er, he felt it would have been much wiser to have remained 
contented with knowing exactly where the Lady Agnes was, 
and setting his best energies to work, to urge Randolph to 
push on the siege. He trusted much to the wit and intelli- 
gence of his page to give Sir Thomas all the information 
that was needed, not alone as to his fate, but as to all the 
causes of his detention and the king’s great anxiety for the 
release of Agnes. Would they think of dispatching a mes- 
senger on the instant to Dumbarton, to stay, if possible, the 
march of the king, was a question returning again and 
again to his mind, and he paced the narrow precincts of his 
prison in all the nervous irritability which ever attends the 
longing desire for rapid movement, when its importance is 
known, and we ourselves are utterly unable to forward it. 


384 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


The very darkness seemed to chafe him, he wanted to see 
if the movements of the besieging army were visible from 
his loophole, and what part of the castle it commanded; he 
heard nothing that betrayed the vicinity of many soldiers; 
even the sentinel’s tread appeared at some distance and ir- 
regular, as if that particular spot were less strongly guarded 
than the others. He looked eagerly forth, but there was 
no moon, and he saw nothing but darkness. Then he tried 
to compose himself by thinking of Agnes, but there was no 
composure for him there. He pictured her sufferings in 
solitary confinement, or under the wardance of harsh and 
strange guardians, till he almost shuddered, for liberty was 
no common joy to her, it was actually her life, her being 
now; her madness lost its sting, her paroxysms of anguish 
were less and less frequent the more perfect freedom she 
enjoyed; and so fragile seemed the link between the mortal 
shell and life, that he knew not what irreparable injury im- 
prisonment and harshness might produce. Then, to escape 
the anxiety of such thoughts, he tried to turn them in an- 
other channel, over which the form of the Lady Isoline hov- 
ered like a bright radiant star, which ought certainly to 
have shed light and hope, but somehow even that light was 
faint and flickering, and often lost altogether beneath heavy 
masses of black clouds that would float over his horizon, 
and yet, if the truth must be told, the knight’s thoughts lin- 
gered there still more powerfully, more constantly than else- 
where; he would have despaired, simply from his proneness 
to the desponding and the sad, as he had no hope. However, 
if he had no hope, memory was kind, for she recalled in that 
darkness every look and word and varying tone of Isoline so 
vividly, he more than once felt himself entranced, not even 
needing the aid of sleep to give them voice and substance; 
nay, he would rather have shunned sleep, lest it should 
break the spell — and so passed the night. 

The morning gave Sir Amiot the information he desired. 
Within twenty yards of the tower rose the wall, which, some- 
what to his surprise, was there not above twice a man’s 
height. Looking further, it was easy to perceive that the 
excessive steepness and extraordinary shape and position of 
the rock at that point had occasioned this, the architect of 
the castle believing, with some appearance of justice, that 
crags themselves were sufficient defence, being wholly in- 
accessible; crags and cliffs jutted out from the main rock 
on every side; the foundations of the walls themselves ap- 
peared scarcely to allow space for a scaling-ladder, shelving 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


385 


down in some parts to a complete precipice, at others, varied 
by protruding rocks. A single sentinel was there on guard ; 
his march, however, taking a contrary direction to that 
which Sir Amiot’s loophole overlooked. Situated corner- 
wise, he only saw the wall and crags, a circumstance occa- 
sioning some regret, as he almost fancied the Scottish army 
might be visible to the sentinel from the top of the wall, 
though concealed from him. 

With the strong feeling of a soldier within him, learned 
in all military tactics, he could not but admire the impreg- 
nable situation of the fortress, and the desire to see it in 
King Robert’s possession became stronger than ever, though 
its impregnability seemed to whisper how vain was that 
desire. Still he almost hoped the confinement of the Lady 
Agnes, and King Robert’s earnest desire to obtain her free- 
dom, would urge Randolph to more decided measures than 
he had yet adopted. It was only by the conquest of the 
castle he could look to obtaining his individual liberty, for 
the ransom which he knew his avaricious captor would de- 
mand was utterly out of his power to pay, and he saw before 
him nothing but the dim, shapeless vista of lingering im- 
prisonment, entirely preventing the fulfilment of his vow, 
while his companions would be gathering fresh laurels, and 
perhaps the liberation he so earnestly desired to effect by his 
own right hand, would become the glory of another, and his 
present doom remain unchanged. Isoline, too, how might 
he find her, if years passed ere he was free? the wife of 
Douglas ; and though, as we have seen in a former page, he 
had no hope, or fancied he had none, that she could ever be- 
come his, the idea of meeting her as the wife of another was 
fraught with such intolerable suffering, that his imprison- 
ment and inactivity became doubly hateful. Even the king, 
he thought, would forget him after a few years — forget his 
very. existence; how could he, with so many gallant officers 
round him, so many calls upon his head and heart, retain a 
kindly recollection of all who fell or were imprisoned in his 
cause? Now these multifarious cogitations were anything 
but agreeable, particularly as Sir Amiot chanced to be one 
of that curious class denominated self-tormentors, ever look- 
ing to the dark rather than the sunny side of life. In truth, 
perchance he had more cause for these fancies than most of 
his class, for he was peculiarly and mournfully situated, 
and the long weary hours of his captivity permitted no 
cheering prospect. He tried to find amusement in polishing 
his armor — already polished as high as art could make it — 


386 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


but that was but a sad resource. He tried to fancy how a 
party of daring adventurers might scale the crags just at 
that point and mount the wall, and then smiled at the 
fertility of his imagination, picturing things sober reason 
felt impossible. The second night of his captivity was par- 
tially illuminated by a young moon, whose lights and shad- 
ows, playing fantastically on the rocks, excited even his 
admiring attention. The third night was pitchy dark, 
neither moon nor star for several hours being visible. Still 
Sir Amiot remained by his loophole, as if the darkness pre- 
sented objects either to his bodily or mental eye, preferable 
to the hard couch and fevered sleep which was his only alter- 
native with this sorrowful vigil. There was a sensation at 
his heart very like the prognostics of a thunder-storm, a sort 
of feverish excitement, likely enough to follow the morbid 
streams of unchecked thought, when indulged in for any 
length, and unrelieved by words. The cool, March breeze 
that fanned his cheek through the open spaces of his loop- 
hole, however, gave no evidence of thunder lingering in the 
air, and Sir Amiot remained at his post, looking out on the 
darkness, till his excited fancy almost made him believe he 
could distinguish objects, moving masses of darkness round 
and about the jutting cliffs. There was no sound, not a 
breath to disturb the perfect stillness, except when, now 
and then, a fresh breeze swept by, bearing some of the heavy 
clouds along with it, and making the deep gloom a degree 
less obscure. 

By the length of time since the set of sun, Sir Amiot 
imagined it must be fast approaching midnight, still he felt 
no inclination whatever for repose, and remained at his 
post. If these black, moving shapes were the mere delu- 
sions of fancy, their constancy was something remarkable, 
for however the knight shook himself, rubbed his eyes, nay, 
even took a turn in his cell, to assure himself he was awake 
not dreaming, still they were visible. If disappearing, 
which they often did for some minutes, he traced them 
again in a different part of the crag, gradually floating — for 
no other word can give an idea of their motion, at least as 
it appeared to Sir Amiot — nearer the foundation of the wall. 
Shape and substance indeed he could not give them, for he 
could only have described them as small, detached masses of 
black cloud hovering around and about the cliff. Had any 
one suggested the idea of human beings, he would have 
declared it impossible; for, in the first place, they had not 
the smallest semblance of humanity, though that might 


THE DAYS OF BKUCE. 


387 


have been but the treachery of night; and the next and 
more convincing, no human foot could possibly find resting 
up those crags. That the sentinel either did not see this 
strange appearance, or if he did, thought nothing of it, at 
first surprised our hero, and somewhat disagreeably height- 
ened the feeling of superstitious awe he felt, much to his 
annoyance, creeping over him; but then he remembered 
that the sentinel’s post and line of march did not look in 
the same direction as his loophole, and so perhaps he really 
could not see them. More than once he felt almost tempted 
to shout aloud to the man, and inquire if he saw anything 
remarkable about the cliffs, but checked the wish as coward- 
ly folly. They appeared to dive in and out the crags like 
passing shadows, but there was no light in the heavens to 
occasion them; and, after some time, Sir Amiot thought 
he had succeeded in making himself believe they were in 
fact nothing but illusion, occasioned by the darkness around 
seeming less opaque against the white cliffs. Just as he 
thought of retiring, satisfied with this belief, rendered 
stronger by their having disappeared for a much longer in- 
terval than usual, they again became visible, and much near- 
er the wall, though still presenting nothing to his strained 
gaze but moving darkness. At that instant the steps of the 
guard resounded close under Sir Amiot’s tower, as they 
marched on to relieve the sentinel, and see that all was right, 
and at the same instant, beneath his very eye, those myste- 
rious shapes had vanished into their parent darkness, he 
believed, for he could not distinguish the faintest trace. 
Wrought up to a state of almost painful excitement, the 
steps of the guard absolutely jarred upon his nerves, and he 
started with undefined terror as he heard a heavy stone 
thrown from the wall, roll noisily from crag to crag till it 
reached the precipice, and fell to the ground, followed by the 
voice of the sentinel, exclaiming : 

“ Ha ! ha ! keep close, I see you well ! ” 

Sir Amiot’s very respiration seemed impeded as he lis- 
tened for what might follow, but nothing came, save the joy- 
ous laugh of the soldiers, betraying their consciousness of 
their comrade’s jest, and bidding him time it better on an- 
other occasion ; then followed the sentinel’s assertion he had 
frightened them, however they might deny it, a merry dis- 
pute, and the steps passed on, and all again was silence, deep, 
soundless as the grave. Again the knight looked forth, but 
for some time, to his fevered fancy it seemed full half an 
hour, he looked in vain; and then again, one by one, seem- 


388 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


ing to glide from behind the crags, those shapes appeared; 
cautiously, silently they glided nearer; he lost them behind 
the wall, but not for long, one by one, he saw them stand 
upon the wall, one, two, and three, and shapeless they were 
no longer; was it fancy or reality — surely, they bore the 
forms of men, and one, the first who ascended, could it be, 
as Sir Amiot’s wild imagination pictured, the peculiarly 
light, bounding form of his own page? He dared not utter 
a sound; fascinated, entranced as by some spell, his eyes 
moved not, he breathed thickly and painfully; he counted 
thirty of those strange shapes ascend, pause a moment on 
the wall, and descend within it, how, he could not distin- 
guish; they passed beneath his prison so silently, so glid- 
ingly, even yet the idea of supernatural visitants remained 
uppermost, and chilled his very heart’s blood, even while it 
strove to bound up at the thought of liberty. One shape 
alone remained on the wall, it flew past, disappeared, then 
came the sound of a brief struggle to his ear, a stifled, quiv- 
ering cry of death, a heavy plunge, and then again all was 
silent. He listened intently, almost frenzied by the wild 
desire to unfold the mysteries of that darkness and silence, 
to burst his bonds, to join that gallant band, for if they were 
mortal men, he knew well their purpose. Still there was 
no sound ; every minute felt an hour. Sir Amiot knew not 
how short a space had, in fact, rolled by since they had 
disappeared. Was it fancy, or was that silence becoming 
peopled by distant sounds, waxing louder and more loud, 
nearer and more near? A moment’s indecision, and the 
next Sir Amiot bounded from his prison-floor, and clasped 
his hands in ecstasy. “ It is — it is ! ” he shouted. “ Brave, 
glorious Randolph, this is your work! Oh, why can I not 
join ye? Why am I inclosed — caged? Is there no means 
of liberty ? ” and he shook the iron door with violence, but 
in vain. Every shout that burst upon his ear thrilled 
through him, as if he too had joined the strife. Wild was 
the uproar, stunning the din that, breaking the previous 
stillness, reached even his distant tower, and told of the 
work without. A thousand torches seemed to flash up 
through the thick darkness; cries for mercy, shouts of tri- 
umph came strangely mingled on his ear; clashing steel, 
confused sounds as of the very brunt of war, came so close 
upon him, he felt the strife was carried on beneath his very 
walls; then came louder and fuller shouts of triumph; he 
felt, as by instinct, the gates had been flung open by that 
secret band, and free entrance given to the awaiting army. 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


389 


It could not have been an hour from the commencement of 
the strife, when, even in the midst of the din without, Sir 
Amiot’s quick ear discerned nearer sounds, hasty, eager 
steps bounding up the turret-stair; his heart throbbed vio- 
lently. Was it liberation, or his vindictive captor armed 
with death? The one, he knew, was as likely as the other; 
and who may tell the emotion of that moment ? There was 
the sound of heavy bars removed, hastened evidently by the 
strokes of a heavy mallet; then came the clash of keys, a 
suppressed oath, when three or four were tried unsuccess- 
fully, and then a shout of joy in well-known tones. The 
door flew back, and Malcolm was at his master’s feet. 

“ I thought the villain had died with a lie in his throat, 
and told me wrong,” he exclaimed, concealing all emotion 
under his usual recklessness ; “ but he has not, and I thank 
him. Away, away, my dear master! I hoped to have 
brought you freedom time enough to give you the pleasure 
of sharing our glorious game; but I fear me that is over 
now. We have had but too easy a victory; the ill-fated 
slaves were all asleep and comfortable, and rushed out in 
pretty guise, as you may believe. Sir Thomas would hardly 
permit the gates to be opened till the game were won; 
thirty armed men against two hundred unarmed and in 
pitiable confusion, he deemed but fair play; and so the 
castle is ours, and you are liberated.” 

“ I little dreamed,” said Sir Amiot, . those gliding forms 
of darkness were you and my brave companions; so little 
did I think it, that more than once I was about to hail the 
soldier on the wall, and demand if he saw aught, the shapes 
seemed so to mock me.” 

“ By St. Andrew, my good lord, it was well you did not : 
that poor sorry fool, the first to go to his account, startled us 
enough with his ill-timed jest; he little thought his idle 
words might have so much truth.” 

“ Ha ! you heard them then — and the stone ? ” 

“ Came thundering down directly over our heads, threat- 
ening inevitable destruction had a single man of us moved 
or stirred ; but Randolph was with us, and so calm, so col- 
lected, even at such a moment, if there were anything like 
fear among us, it was stilled at once.” 

“ Then my sight did not deceive me ; it was you, my gal- 
lant boy, the first to stand upon the wall — I thought it, yet 
dared not credit it.” 

“ And why not, my lord ? I thought you knew there is 
no mount, no cliff, no wall too steep for Malcolm, an he wills 


390 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


to scale it. Aye, I first, Sir Andrew Grey the next, and 
Randolph himself, brave heart, the third; he would not 
trust this daring deed to other than himself, and well de- 
serves to win it. Haste on, my lord, he longs to greet thee 
free.” 

And they did haste on, for this brief conference had not 
detained them in the tower, but took place as they hur- 
ried through the courts — how changed in aspect to three 
days before — toward the keep. The actual strife was over, 
but the dead and dying English gave fearful tokens of its 
fierceness and effect, some indeed yet struggled; the clash 
of weapons was still distinguished at distant intervals, but 
faint and hesitating. Already the Scotch were busy in 
clearing the ground, slippery with blood, in securing their 
prisoners, flinging open all the dungeon doors, and giving 
liberty to many who had there changed youth for age. 
Troop after troop of Randolph’s men, with banners flying, 
and heralded by martial and triumphant music, were march- 
ing proudly and leisurely over the drawbridge and through 
the widely open posterns, and meeting in the centre court 
before the keep; their glittering armor flashing back the 
blazing light of a hundred torches, their shouts forming a 
glad, deep bass to the drums and clarions — all presenting a 
scene of such spirit-stirring interest, Sir Amiot’s heart 
throbbed high with exultation, to the utter exclusion of 
every saddening feeling. Shout after shout hailed his re- 
appearance; his own followers breaking from their ranks, 
thronged round him; and Randolph himself, seeing his ap- 
proach from the entrance to the keep, hastened to meet and 
embrace him. 

“Welcome, welcome, most gallant Amiot!” he said, 
eagerly; “the joy of seeing thee again at liberty banishes 
the regret that thou wert not at my side in this exciting en- 
terprise. It is but fitting thou shouldst have some share of 
its glory; though, by mine honor, hadst not thou and the 
Lady Agnes been within these walls, methinks that paragon 
of pages had hardly obtained such hearing or such influence. 
Thou wert made captive in seeking her rescue, he tells me, 
so ’tis meet and just thou shouldst give her freedom. Thy 
presence, too, will startle her less than other of my knights, 
gallant as thou perchance, but scarce as gentle.” 

“ Thanks for the grateful task,” answered the knight, 
gayly ; “ but tell me first — the king, has his march to the 
borders been prevented by the tidings his afflicted Agnes is 
here?” 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


391 


“Yes; the boy Malcolm related all that had passed, and 
I dispatched a messenger back to Dumbarton on the in- 
stant; he was just in time, one troop had commenced their 
march, but were easily recalled. His grace was greatly 
relieved, but sent word to leave no stone unturned to gain 
the fortress or her freedom, well knowing what confinement 
is to her.” 

“ And well hast thou performed thy mission,” said Sir 
Amiot, grasping Randolph’s hand with energy. “ Noble, 
glorious Randolph, I could envy thee thy laurels.” 

“ Nay, nay, thou hast plucked too many thyself to 
grudge me mine,” replied the warrior ; “ besides,” he contin- 
ued, half sadly, “ remember, I must gather enough to cover 
former errors, ere I may wear them as meeds of glory.” 

Hastily, joyously Sir Amiot sprang up the narrow stair- 
case he pointed out as leading to the turret room where 
Agnes was imprisoned; they had given him the keys, but 
he stood and paused a moment, not knowing which door, 
among several that faced him, led to her. He was not long 
in doubt, her voice thrilled upon his ear, mournfully, pain- 
fully, and low, but still, as was almost always its wont, in 
broken fragments of song. Sir Amiot could not bear more, 
there was such an utter hopelessness, such piercing suffering 
in those low thrilling tones, that even without the words in 
which she had thrown her thoughts, tears would have arisen, 
and his hand so shook with emotion, he could scarcely place 
the key within the lock, or prevent the clashing of the rest. 
Her voice sunk on the instant, but on his entrance she 
bounded forward with a cry of joy. 

“ I am free, then — oh, I am free ! I may quit these hate- 
ful walls, or thou wouldst not be here, kind warrior. Speak 
I not truth? oh, tell me I may go hence, go seek my own 
love among the flowers and streams he loves; it is long, 
long, oh, so long since I have seen him; he cannot smile on 
me here. I am free — oh, tell me I am free.” 

“Free as the breeze thou lovest, free as the mountain 
stream, sweet lady,” answered Sir Amiot, in the low gentle 
tone she had learned to understand, and his heart throbbed 
with a strange pleasure as he felt her cling to his arm, and 
look up in his face with the loving confidence he had sought 
for months in vain. To his anxious eye the complexion 
was more transparent, the features more delicate yet, as 
if the days of her confinement had left her not untouched, 
but the change was so faintly perceptible he could not have 
defined it. That now and then there were symptoms of 


392 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


returning sanity was visible to all; and, indeed, King Rob- 
ert and Isoline indulged the hope, that one day might see 
that beautiful mind effectually restored. They saw not, 
they could not see the form was dwindling more and more 
into a spirit shape, and that perchance the same day that 
saw the mind in beauty would wing the soul away. 

“Free, free!” she repeated, the musical laugh of glee 
banishing all sadness from her voice. “ Oh, what joy for 
Agnes! and hast thou done this, gallant Amiot? Oh, that 
I could give thee the love thou deservest, but I cannot ; alas, 
no ! I have no love for earth now, save for King Robert. I 
see my Nigel hovering round him when he is in danger or 
in woe, guarding him from peril, beguiling him from grief. 
He loves Robert, and so then must I. But for thee, what 
can I do to make thee glad, sir knight ? ” 

“ Love me, call me brother ! ” murmured Sir Amiot, in 
strong emotion ; “ dearest, loveliest, call me brother ! ” 

“ Brother ! ” she repeated, and the expression of her fea- 
tures sadly changed ; “ methinks I had a brother once, but 
it was long, long since, and he faded away even before my 
own noble love, who smiles on me from heaven. Brother — 
no, no, I will not call thee brother, for it makes me sad, and 
I could weep, I know not why, save that when I hear that 
word darkness seems to come upon me, peopled only by 
dreams of pain. But tell me, kind Amiot, what was that 
sudden noise I heard when I thought every one slept but me, 
and such a glare of light, and clashing weapons ? methought 
? twas a dream of that which hath been, for such strange 
thoughts came with it, such sharp and bitter pain. Hath 
there been such a noise, or was it but the wild visions of 
my poor brain ? ” 

“ Nay, it was no vision, ? twas real, sweet one. Randolph 
hath won the castle, hath gained thy liberty and mine, and 
done King Robert yet nobler service. He fought and won.” 

“ Ha ! said I not so ? ” exclaimed Agnes, suddenly with- 
drawing herself from the support of the knight, and stand- 
ing almost majestically erect, a vivid flush on her cheek, her 
eye glittering in unwonted radiance. “ Said I not victory 
would be ours? When did King Robert strike in vain, 
since He said that they should conquer? Strive on, strive 
on, bold hearts! He who might not fight for ye on earth, 
blesses ye from heaven. Scotland shall be free, shall be 
exalted ; her king triumphant ! ” 

The brief emotion passed as quickly as it came, followed 
by a slight convulsion through every limb, and contracting 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


393 


her features as if by sudden and irrepressible agony. Sir 
Amiot tenderly raised her in his arms, and laid her on the 
couch. He had now often seen and mourned over these 
fearful paroxysms, and it did not therefore take him by 
surprise; he bent over her in commiserating pity, conscious 
he could do nothing till nature herself gave relief, in the 
usual burst of agonizing tears. And then he left her, aware 
that such was always the custom of those who had her in 
charge, as aught like observation in such moments ever 
seemed to irritate instead of soothe. 

He left the door of her apartment open, trusting that, 
after the usual interval of internal suffering, the conscious- 
ness of perfect freedom would operate beneficially. N or 
was he deceived — for the sun had not risen above an hour 
ere her light form appeared hovering among the busy and 
triumphant soldiers, bearing no evidence of previous suffer- 
ing, but looking on for a few minutes with the amused and 
curious look of childhood, and then bounding to the more 
solitary courts, from mound to mound, and wall to wall, her 
sweet voice ringing forth in song, rejoicing she was free. 

A few words from Randolph sufficed to inform Sir 
Amiot of all that had passed in his brief captivity. His 
men, after the first moment of despondency as to their mas- 
ter’s fate, and their own utter inability to avert it, urged on 
by Malcolm, hastened to Lord Randolph’s tent, and gave 
him concise and instant intelligence of all that had occurred 
since they had left his camp, including, of course, the dis- 
appearance of the Lady Agnes, the king’s anxiety and reso- 
lution to seek her, their discovery of her track, pursuit, and 
brief scuffle at the postern of the castle, and the fatal effects 
of Sir Amiot’s daring. Randolph heard them with his 
wonted attention, dispatched a messenger with these tidings 
instantly to the king, and then set his energetic mind active- 
ly to work in what manner to proceed; for gain the castle 
he vowed no power on earth should prevent. 

The next morning, before daybreak, Malcolm sought 
him, requesting a private interview, which was granted on 
the instant. The lad then told him that, during his wander- 
ings and adventures, he had often been in the habit of clam- 
bering up the crags on the southern side of the castle and 
making his way over the wall, which was there very low and 
unguarded, into the very centre of the fortress ; it was thus, 
mingling in disguise familiarly among the English, he had 
procured the information which he had so loved to report 
mysteriously to the king or his officers. He had done this, 


394 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


he said, continually in almost every fortress occupied by the 
English, partly for his amusement, partly in the hope of 
finding some one whom he loved; but the southern crags 
of Edinburgh Castle were more familiar to him than any. 
To make assurance doubly sure, he had employed the night 
previous in retracing his customary path, and found he had 
not forgotten one particular concerning it. He had mount- 
ed as far as the wall and clambered down again wholly un- 
perceived. He was certain, if Lord Randolph would only 
trust him, he could lead a select body of daring adventurers 
to the very foot of the wall, which with the aid of rope- 
ladders, they could easily surmount and descend. He ac- 
knowledged the path was no easy one, and that there was 
most imminent risk, for if discovered by the English in the 
act of descending, they must every one of them inevitably 
perish; still he felt no fear — and if Lord Randolph would 
only leave to him the choice of the men, he should see how 
admirably they would succeed. 

For some little time the warrior paused in deep and 
weighty thought. He did not doubt the page in the very 
least, for his acuteness and agility had been too often 
proved, and he knew he was trusted by the king himself. 
Still the risk was too great, the danger too extreme for him 
to venture on a resolution by himself alone. He then sum- 
moned Sir Andrew Grey, Sir Aleck Fraser, and one or two 
others noted for their courage and sagacity, held a brief 
council, and finally decided on the daring attempt. Mal- 
colm on his part was not idle. Eight-and-twenty picked 
men he selected from the ranks, and brought to Randolph 
and his colleagues for approval, who examined them sepa- 
rately, told them what was needed, and in the joyous excite- 
ment which the very idea of the enterprise created, received 
confirmation sufficient of their mettle and necessary cool- 
ness. His next care was to prepare his army so as to march 
through the different gates the moment they were flung open 
from within. This had all to be done after dark, lest their 
movements should attract the attention of the guard on the 
walls. Great, then, was the disappointment when the night 
decided on for the attack, the moon, though young, shone 
so brightly as to prevent the attempt, and compel them to 
defer it. The darkness of the next, however, appeared to 
favor the enterprise, and, despite the fear the moon might 
break through the clouds ere the wall was gained, their ardor 
could be restrained no longer. The main army, divided 
into five strong bands, under experienced leaders, was mar- 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


395 


shalled silently and cautiously around the castle, to enter 
at once by every postern flung open for their admittance; 
and Randolph himself, with Sir Andrew Grey and Sir 
Aleck Fraser, placed themselves at the head of their eight- 
and-twenty picked men, and with beating hearts, but cool, 
collected daring, gave themselves up to the truth and guid- 
ance of Sir Amiot’s page. 

The rest is known. How they ascended they afterward 
declared they could not tell, for on looking back by day- 
light, they could not trace their path, nor imagine how they 
had contrived to clamber up and round the crags; a false 
step, a loosened stone, a word spoken, must inevitably have 
betrayed them, and occasioned their entire destruction, 
simply by stones flung from above. The intensity of alarm 
even in their hardy breasts, when the voice of the sentinel 
was heard, declaring he saw them, and for the moment actu- 
ally believed he did, may be perhaps imagined, but certainly 
not described. Well it was for them there had not been one 
wavering spirit, one uncertain heart among them, or the 
soldier’s jest would have been speedily turned to earnest, 
and that moment their last. 

Great indeed was the triumph of this important con- 
quest; but there was no more pride and exultation in the 
gallant men through whose immediate agency it had been 
accomplished than in their comrades; they felt they had 
but done what every other Scotsman would have done, and 
that they had been chosen was more the work of chance than 
their own merits. Their only anxiety was for the approv- 
ing look of their sovereign, the joy it would be to tell him 
another strong castle was at his feet; and therefore, when 
Lord Randolph publicly asked them what reward he could 
bestow on them over and above their fellows, the unani- 
mous shout arose for permission to accompany those who 
bore the tidings to the king. 

“ Be it so, then, gallant hearts ! ” exclaimed Randolph, 
frankly and joyously. “ Sunset shall see ye at Dumbarton, 
and our noble king shall receive the Lady Agnes in life and 
freedom, and tidings of Edinburgh’s downfall at the same 
time. Will you, gallant Amiot, accompany Grey and Fraser 
once more to the king, or will ye rest with me ? an ye prefer 
the first, by St. Andrew, it is but your due ; for without thy 
sagacity in tracking these marauding villains to their 
haunt, the Lady Agnes might still have been in captivity, 
and the king wasting his strength and hazarding his pre- 
cious life in inglorious border warfare. Thou wert the 
26 


396 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


paladin to risk life and lose liberty for this fair lady, and 
it is but right thou shouldst conduct her in all honor to 
the king.” 

“Yes, do thou go with me, gentle Amiot,” interposed 
Agnes herself, who had, unobserved, neared the martial 
throng, and now clung to the knight’s arm ; “ do thou take 
me to King Robert, and I will tell him how kind and good 
thou hast been to his poor Agnes, and he will give thee the 
love I cannot; and thou wilt lead me to the valleys and 
mountains I love, and pluck me fresh flowers and weave me 
bright garlands — wilt thou not? yes, yes. Go thou with 
me.” 

Her voice thrilled upon those rude hearts around till 
they absolutely melted before it, and men, a moment be- 
fore alive but to the dream of glory and triumph, and all 
the sterner themes of war, felt a strange quivering of eye 
and lip, and turned away lest weakness should be betrayed. 
Sir Amiot’ s impulse, even at that moment, was to fold that 
fragile being to his yearning heart, and vow protection and 
kindness not alone for that brief journey, but forever and 
forever; for if his might not be that right, oh, whose might 
it be? but he could not claim it then — and there he might 
not prove the claim. 

Preparations for departure were speedily arranged. 
With a concise narrative of the enterprise, Lord Randolph 
expressed the wish that the king would himself march to oc- 
cupy Edinburgh, as, from its position, its great strength, its 
command of the sea, he deemed it well adapted for the 
capital of his kingdom, far better suited for that purpose 
than Perth, which, lying more at the entrance of the high- 
lands, appeared to confine his dominions to the north, and 
left the south to the mercy of its feudal lords. Sir Amiot, 
Fraser, and Grey gladly accepted the charge of these sug- 
gestions, and, armed with all proper directions, set off on 
their route. 

It was a joyous journey. Nature seemed doubly smiling 
to the gaze of the free — for no nations are more alive to her 
changeful aspect than are mountaineers; and it appeared 
as if their many wanderings in the bosom of their country, 
the many times they had found shelter and protection and 
concealment in her vast solitudes and frowning mountains 
and hidden dells had endeared her yet more to their hearts, 
and excited yet more intense rejoicing in her freedom, in 
the widely different aspect she presented now to that of five 
brief years before. They passed through valleys, smiling 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


397 


in fertility and peace, undisturbed by the foot of the spoiler ; 
they traversed villages, whose every inmate came forth to 
their cottage doors to cry God’s blessing on them for their 
bravery and patriotism; they saw towns, whose mechanics 
and citizens were peacefully pursuing their several occu- 
pations, undisturbed by even the dream of slavery and spoil. 
They remarked these things, and there was not a heart in 
that gallant band which did not throb higher in honest ex- 
ultation that, under a gracious Providence, their arms had 
done this — their country owed her freedom to her sons, and 
to none other. 

It was a mournful satisfaction to witness the afflicted 
Agnes during this journey. She had chosen to ride, instead 
of using the litter Sir Amiot wished her to accept, and 
Malcolm was ever at her bridle-rein, quitting it but to start 
aside or gallop forward to bring her some choice flower his 
quick eye perceived. He controlled his wandering propen- 
sities evidently to devote himself to her — a subject of some 
marvel to his comrades. Sir Amiot, too, rode beside her; 
quitting the gay converse of his colleagues, who rode ahead, 
and often besought him to join them, to tend and, when her 
rambling fancy would permit, talk with her. Her beautiful 
eye continually wandered round, lit up with glee, save when 
its gaze fixed itself on the azure heaven, and then the absorb- 
ing intensity of love which it betrayed, breathed that the 
fancy she could see the lost object of that love smiling upon 
her was again her own, and then words would escape her as 
if wholly unconscious of all outward objects save his pres- 
ence, and then the carol of some wild song expressed the 
imaginings of her soul in words. Half the journey she per- 
formed on horseback, but then bodily energy failed, and she 
was glad to recline in the litter Sir Amiot’s care had pro- 
vided, on condition, she said, its curtains should be wide 
apart, that she might look upon beautiful nature, and feel 
that she was free, that her own spirit love might commune 
with her still. 

There had been already excitement at Dumbarton Castle 
that day, for Lord Douglas had unexpectedly arrived with 
news of the final reduction of all Roxburgh, and the borders 
in its vicinity; and though he had no intention of as yet 
leaving the important province in the hands of his subal- 
terns, he could not resist the impulse of paying his sover- 
eign a flying visit, and receiving fresh spirit and hope from 
the bright eyes of the Lady Isoline. 

King Robert was in high spirits ; the sight of his favorite 


398 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


officer, and the news he brought, banishing for the time his 
anxiety on account of Agnes, and unusual revelry and mirth 
rung round the festive board spread for the sunset meal. 
Determined not to evince the faintest sign of what in real- 
ity was passing or rather lay passive in her heart, Isoline’s 
spirit outwardly appeared touched by the reigning gayety of 
the hour, and Douglas found himself entranced as usual. 
Hope was warm within him, and his spirits were exulting 
beneath its influence; he revelled in her surpassing grace 
and beauty, sufficiently content with present enjoyment not 
to hazard words of love, which he well knew would occasion 
her to be as cold and reserved as she was now all life and 
brilliance. King Robert looked on them both and rejoiced, 
imagining his earnest wishes growing nearer and nearer 
completion. Isoline could not look thus, speak thus, had 
she any painful affection dwelling in her heart, and if there 
were none, Douglas must succeed. 

The last gleam of daylight had disappeared, and the 
huge torches of pine shed their bright ruddy light on the 
large hall, but there was no cessation, no pause in the lively 
converse and gay jests passing round; the meal seemed pro- 
longed, that the sociality it engendered might not be dis- 
turbed, when loudly and shrilly a trumpet sounded without 
the walls, followed by eager tramp and loud shouts of greet- 
ing from within. 

“ Ha ! fresh tidings — that is Randolph’s bugle blast ! ” 
exclaimed the king, starting up from his seat of state. 
“ Quick, marshal in his messengers, they bring us pleasant 
news, or he would not send them. By St. Andrew, ’tis 
something more than common — listen to those shouts ! ” 

And even as he spoke, “ Victory — Randolph — Edinburgh 
is free ! ” came loudly borne toward the castle, as if the very 
breeze, envious of the tongues of men, first bore it to the 
ears of the sovereign. The words acted like electricity. 

Douglas even forgot Isoline, and sprung up; a dozen 
other of the lords followed his example, and rushed tumultu- 
ously from the hall. But what was there in those simple 
words to bid the heart of Isoline thus bound up, and flush 
and pale her cheek alternately? She had been told Sir 
Amiot was a prisoner — a prisoner, aye, in his eagerness to 
obtain the freedom of Agnes; that he had madly, impru- 
dently hazarded, not only liberty, but life, in his pursuit of 
her captors. To others this might seem but chivalry, car- 
ried on somewhat rashly; they had not seen his emotion 
when told of her capture; Isoline had, and that subsequent 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


399 


devotion was but the natural consequence of such feeling. 
What did it mean? how might she answer, and yet feel his 
imprisonment, his danger, were matters of interest to her? 
But she did feel them; aye, despite her strivings for sto- 
icism, her belief he could be nothing to her, felt nothing for 
her, there was no little suffering upon her heart, when fancy 
chose to picture all that might befall him in the hands of 
his enemies. Yet this she had successfully concealed; she 
had been bright and brilliant when every nerve was aching ; 
but now those words, “ Edinburgh is free ! ” and if so, he 
must be liberated, well-nigh banished that extraordinary 
self-control, and threatened her heart’s betrayal. She felt 
her hands convulsively close, she could not have prevented 
it. She felt the life-blood leave her cheek and flow back to 
its fountain in her heart ; a moment, and it rushed through 
every vein, burning in her cheek, her lip, with indignation 
at herself. He stood before her, and his hand clasped that 
of Agnes; his plumed helmet was in his hand, but there 
was a smile on his lip, a flash in his bright eye, visible 
through the half mask, which told of satisfaction apart from 
her. There were many new forms within the hall. Sir 
Andrew Grey, with the torn banner of England, Fraser, 
with the pennon of St. George, which his own hand had 
plucked from the outer turret, and the tall, athletic forms 
of those gallant men who had been their companions in their 
daring deed; but Isoline saw them through a strange mist, 
in which only two objects were clear. Agnes clung to Sir 
Amiot’s arm, evidently anxious to spring forward to the 
king, but slightly and tenderly restrained by him. He was 
bending down his head to hers, and seeming to whisper some 
gentle words, which had the effect of detaining her for a 
few minutes by his side. 

“Free — conquered — ours!” were the first words dis- 
tinctly intelligible to Isoline in the voice of her sovereign. 
“ My noble, gallant Randolph, well hath he atoned for boy- 
hood’s errors. But, tell me, ere I hear more of this right 
glorious deed — the Lady Agnes, hath he found her scathless, 
uninjured? Is she free?” 

“ Aye, most gracious sovereign, and is here ! ” exclaimed 
Sir Amiot, joyfully, and withdrawing his arm at the same 
moment from the slender form he supported. Agnes bound- 
ed forward with that cry of glee so grateful to the sover- 
eign’s ear, and clasped his neck, clinging to his bosom as a 
child. 

“ Free — free ! yes, I am free ! Oh, they kept me in stone 


400 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


walls, and far, far away from my own kind Robert; and I 
could not even seek flowers and listen to the birds, and 
there came dark thoughts upon me and such sharp pain, but 
they have all gone now. He came and rescued me, that 
gentle knight — and thou must love him for me, Robert; 
thou knowest poor Agnes cannot, she has no love now save 
for thee ! Wilt thou not reward him ? he has been so kind ! ” 

King Robert gazed upon her, so beautiful, so innocent in 
her affliction, and even at that moment of rejoicing in her 
unexpected freedom, and triumph in his nephew’s conquest, 
there came the memory of his brother on his soul, flinging 
its darkness on his lip and brow. What might not that 
lovely being have been had he lived? what would have been 
his brother’s bliss, had he been still in life? Deep, pure as 
was Robert’s joy in this glorious freedom of his country, he 
knew, he felt it would have been exceeded by the joy of 
Nigel. How, amid such thoughts, could he think that be- 
loved one was happier in heaven? He could not forget his 
horrible fate while Agnes yet lived, by her affliction to recall 
it so vividly; and in that moment of suddenly awakened 
memory the patriot, the warrior, the sovereign felt as if all 
was as naught, all could be sacrificed to fold that brother in 
life, in beauty, to his yearning heart. 

He bent his lordly head upon that of Agnes, and without 
uttering a syllable covered her pale brow with kisses, but 
there needed not words; his warriors read that sudden 
change of countenance, the form of Nigel seemed to float 
before them all, and for a brief minute there was a sudden 
hush of eager tongues, an involuntary pause. 

“ To the board, to the board, my gallant hearts!” ex- 
claimed the king, conquering that moment of emotion, as 
Agnes, released from his embrace, seated herself as usual on 
a low settle at his side, content to look on and hear him. 
“Ye have ridden long and well to bear us thus speedily these 
right glorious tidings. Room there, for our faithful com- 
rades, well worthy to feast with their king. Welcome, wel- 
come, one and all! Fill high every cup — to Randolph and 
his thirty ! ” 

Loudly, enthusiastically the words were echoed again 
and yet again, and well it was perhaps for Isoline, the con- 
fusion which for a few minutes ensued enabling her, ere 
room was found for the new arrivals and order restored, to 
regain at least the semblance of composure. 

Sir Amiot’s eye had sought her amid the group of fe- 
males scattered round the monarch’s table. There was an 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


401 


unusual expression of hilarity in those of his features which 
were visible, and in his whole manner, and he had made a 
hasty advance toward Isoline as Agnes sprung from him to 
the king, as if claiming her sympathy in the liberation of 
her friend ; then, from some rising recollection, he suddenly 
checked himself, the bright flash faded from his eye, and he 
merely bowed lowly in the respectful salutation her rank 
demanded. The bow was acknowledged coldly, it seemed 
to him reservedly, if not with unusual assumption of dig- 
nity, and the knight, chilled and saddened, took the place 
assigned him, and sought to join in the animated converse 
passing round him. Douglas had resumed his place by the 
side of the Lady Isoline, and she, as if resolved to prove her 
mastery over herself as well as over every one else, and de- 
termined to brave even his misconstruction rather than be- 
tray a single wandering thought, urged him on to give his 
opinion, his admiration of Randolph’s gallant deed, enter- 
ing herself into every martial detail, with that spirit, that 
animation which marked her connection with the glorious 
line of Bruce, and rendered her perhaps yet dearer to her 
kinsmen. It was a gay and spirit-stirring scene, that old 
hall, that joyous night, for the enthusiasm of every heart 
was stamped on every brow, and breathed in every word. 
There was much for King Robert to hear, much he bade 
them repeat again and yet again, and when every particu- 
lar of that daring exploit was told, applause swelled so 
long and loud, the arched roof echoed with the sound. 

“ Aye, to Edinburgh we will go,” were the monarch’s 
parting words that night. “ Won by a patriot band, it shall 
henceforth be the capital of a patriot land, the dwelling of 
patriot kings. To Randolph we will go, my fellow-soldiers, 
ourselves to give him the meed of glory he so well deserves. 
One cup to Scotland’s glory, and then to the rest ye so 
well need.” The pledge passed round, the king departed, 
followed by one simultaneous cheer, that in truth rung 
on his bold heart with a mighty sound, for it told of a 
kingdom’s love. 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

A very few months after the capture of Edinburgh 
Castle sufficed to give the whole town an aspect of bustle 
and activity peculiarly grateful to its inhabitants, so long 


402 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


depressed and groaning *neath the consciousness that as 
long as their proud citadel were in English hands, however 
they might share the privileges, the immunities of other 
citizens granted by King Robert, still they were not free. 
They had heard of castles falling, of even countrymen and 
peasants rising in arms, and had felt yet more keenly the 
desire and the impossibility of laying their castle, even as 
others, at the feet of the king. That was now accomplished ; 
the proud banner of Scotland waved in majestic folds from 
the keep, Scottish soldiers crowded the walls, Scottish nobles 
frequented the city, and lastly, but more precious yet to 
Scottish hearts, their patriot king had fixed his resting 
there, and with imposing pomp and ceremony, at which 
every civil and military authority of the city officiated, pro- 
claimed that fair town the capital of Scotland, the seat of 
royalty, the centre of all of art or science that might fling 
the lustre of her name to other lands, and shed increase of 
glory on her sons ; and there were not wanting those, amid 
the thronging thousands that day congregated, to prophesy 
the future fame of that goodly town; that she would send 
forth from her walls not warriors alone, but men armed 
with the might of genius, the steady rays of philosophy, of 
learning; that, proclaimed thus the capital of a land made 
free, she would preserve her freedom through distant ages, 
and foster in her bosom all of worth and art and genius, 
that can exist but midst the free. King Robert permitted 
not that enthusiasm to cool. Disorders that had crept in 
during the English bondage were rectified; the public 
schools were rearranged on a sure footing; encouragement 
afforded to artists of every grade, and all the blessings of 
peace and security took the place of outrage and of gloom. 
A new spirit dawned upon the town, lighting up its every 
nook and lowliest home with the beams of that sun which 
shines but for the free! 

For a brief period the king of Scotland gave his undi- 
vided attention to the internal comfort and strength of his 
kingdom and people; made repeated excursions from Edin- 
burgh to other towns and districts; arranged aught that 
might be disorderly, heightened all that was flourishing. 
Happiness and peace waited on his steps, and left their trace 
behind them. He saw that all of Scotland in his possession 
was secure; that the castles and fortresses he had permitted 
to stand, as guardians of the country, were well seneschalled 
and garrisoned; and thus, on his return to Edinburgh, he 
had leisure to form his plans for another expedition against 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


403 


England, which by internal conflicts was well-nigh torn 
asunder. 

“Any service needed along the coast of Ireland, Sir 
Knight of the Branch? ” said Lord Edward Bruce, jocosely, 
meeting Sir Amiot in one of the antechambers of the castle, 
early in the June of the same year. “ Know you I am 
going to change my services from a general’s to an ad- 
miral’s, and would ask your sombre worship to accompany 
me, did I imagine the request likely to be of any weight. 
Think you, your fair charge — for I must deem her fair, 
as naught but a woman could hold a young knight so 
steadfast to his oath — think you, I say, there is a chance 
of finding her on some desert rock of the ocean, or wild 
tower on the Irish coast? if so, give me charge concern- 
ing her.” 

“ I thank your lordship for the kindly offer, but I have 
somewhat more hope for the fulfilment of my vow in accom- 
panying King Robert to England; were it other, I would 
gladly try my fortune on the seas. But for what go ye to 
Ireland ? whither and for what purpose seek you the treach- 
erous deep? Methought it were a service scarce active 
enough for Lord Edward Bruce.” 

“ Why no, perchance not, were it not a pleasant change ; 
and Robert — I pray his grace’s pardon — has a right to de- 
mand of me what he pleases. I would lose my right hand 
in his service, and fight with my left forever after, if it 
would pleasure him; king as he is, successful, more glori- 
ously triumphant, there is not a spark of presumption about 
him; he is all a brother still. For what purpose seek I the 
coast of Ireland dost ask? Why, to levy tribute — gold for 
King Robert instead of King Edward — and I shall succeed, 
rest you assured.” 

“ No doubt of it,” answered Sir Amiot, laughing; “ Lord 
Edward Bruce, like his royal brother, has but to appear, and 
that which he wishes is done; nay, it is no chivalric cour- 
tesy, my lord, thou knowest ’tis truth. For this English 
expedition, hast heard more concerning it — are the king’s 
plans determined ? ” 

“ I believe yes, or very nearly so, depending on the 
information expected by an express from England. He 
marches as soon after that information as possible. Our 
poor afflicted Agnes has so conjured him not to leave her 
behind again that, somewhat unwisely, I think, he has 
promised compliance. On a predatory expedition like this, 
there is much risk and little convenience for females.” 


404 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


“ For females ! the Lady Agnes will not go there alone? ” 
Sir Amiot’s heart throbbed as he spoke. 

“No; that madcap Isoline has not ceased tormenting 
to go too, declaring her desire to visit England was too un- 
governable to be resisted. His grace has half consented, for 
the sake of Agnes, and partly to further his darling scheme.” 
“ And what is this darling scheme ? ” 

“ Now, art thou really so wrapt in thine own melan- 
choly musings as not to know, nay, to see, for it is clear 
as crystal? Does not Douglas go with you, and if Isoline 
still shunned him, as there was a time when we fancied she 
did, would she be so earnest in desiring to accompany the 
king? no, no; depend on it, she is beginning to be touched 
by his devotion, and wishes to watch his conduct in the field 
with her own eye, at least so King Robert argues, and it 
sounds well.” 

“ And it is King Robert’s darling wish to bring about 
this union?” demanded Sir Amiot, with a huskiness of 
tone he endeavored to conceal. 

“ Darling wish ! why he would, I think, fight for his 
kingdom over again to bring it about, and make that little 
independent Isoline love Douglas as Douglas loves, and, 
what is more, deserves to be loved.” 

“ And thinkest thou this will be ? Does the Lady Isoline 
love — does she reciprocate his devotion ? ” 

“Not a doubt of it ; not a doubt but that it will be. 
Isoline was not at all likely to let him see his triumph too 
soon; she would rather keep him at bay — try him by cold- 
ness and pride, and all that sort of thing. But what was it 
for? simply to make her victory more complete, and use all 
her powers ere she submitted them to him. I am not over- 
wise in reading woman’s heart, but that’s all clear enough.” 

“ You think, then, she loves him now? ” 

“ Undoubtedly I do. How could she remain untouched 
by such constant devotion as he has shown? and this de- 
sire to accompany King Robert to England confirms it.” 

“ Truly, yes,” replied Sir Amiot, with an effort, that to 
any other but Lord Edward Bruce must have been observ- 
able; then hastily changing the conversation, he said: 

“ Was there not some talk of an expedition to the Isle 
of Man? Does your lordship take it into your cruise, or 
will his grace make the attack ? ” 

“ If this expedition to England be attended with his 
usual success, the galleys will, in all probability, await him 
off the coast of Cumberland, and he will set sail thence with 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


405 


part of his army, leaving the rest to march leisurely to Scot- 
land. But a word in your ear, Sir Amiot; Dundee and 
Rutherglen shall acknowledge Robert ere he return. I have 
set my heart on their reduction, and trust me for the deed.” 

“ And Stirling ? ” 

“ All in good time. There shall remain no fortress in 
Scotland garrisoned by English, while Edward Bruce can 
wield a sword. Ha ! Sir Henry Seaton ; what news — whith- 
er go ye all, my lords ? ” he continued, as several noblemen 
entered the ante-room. 

“ To the king,” was the reply. “ The express from Eng- 
land has arrived, bringing important news. Gaveston is 
murdered.” 

“ Ha ! by my faith, important indeed. Poor wretch ! so 
much for favoritism. Come, Amiot, we’ll to the king 
also ; ” and putting his arm into the knight’s, they followed 
the lords into the presence of the king. 

The state of England was indeed startling. Torn by in- 
ternal divisions, broken into two parties, one of which, con- 
sisting simply of Edward and his ill-fated favorite, strug- 
gled vainly against the overwhelming power of all the Eng- 
lish aristocracy, up in arms to wash out the insolence and 
audacity of the upstart minion in his blood, the kingdom 
presented almost as fair a field for conquest as Scotland had 
done to the rapacious Edward of former years. Edward the 
Second had been compelled to fly northward before the arms 
of Lancaster, carrying his favorite with him, leaving him in 
the fortress of Scarborough, he himself marching to York, 
in the hope of raising forces sufficient to overawe Lancaster 
and his confederates. Before, however, this could be ac- 
complished, Pembroke had besieged Scarborough, the slen- 
der garrison of which compelled Gaveston to surrender. 
He did so, however, on conditions, which, had they been 
adhered to, might have saved him from his horrible fate. 
Pembroke artfully eluded them, conducting him to the 
castle of Dedington, near Banbury ; he there left him under 
but a slender guard, and departed on pretence of impor- 
tant business, but in all probability to counsel with the Earl 
of Warwick on measures afterward adopted. Warwick, 
confident of success from Pembroke’s intelligence, attacked 
the castle. The garrison made no resistance, but deliv- 
ered up Gaveston into the hands of his enemies, who con- 
ducted him with all speed to Warwick Castle, and there Lan- 
caster, Hereford, and Arundel, instantly repaired. Hatred 
has little regard to law, and consequently, without any refer- 


406 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


ence to civil trial or military capitulation, the head of the 
favorite was struck off by the common executioner, without 
mercy or delay. 

Incensed beyond all measure at this outrage to his fa- 
vorite, vowing vengeance unlimited against its perpetrators, 
Edward was making preparations for war all over England, 
and no time therefore could be more favorable for King 
Robert’s plans. The Scottish king had listened attentively 
and silently to this intelligence, expressing some pity both 
for Gaveston and Edward. His acute mind saw at once the 
favorable opportunity for further conquests. 

His plans were discussed freely and fully, and speedily 
arranged. Orders were given to collect and marshal his 
soldiers, to bring them under their several leaders toward 
the borders, there to unite into one compact close body, 
ready to penetrate in a southwesterly direction toward Ches- 
ter, to which place King Robert had resolved, despite of 
all opposition, to make his way. 

“ And now this weighty business accomplished,” he said, 
perceiving some of the lords about to depart, “ I would fain 
know if aught has been heard of Sir Alan Comyn in these 
English proceedings. Has that unhappy youth fallen a vic- 
tim to favoritism, even as the presumptuous Gaveston? 
Can any one tell — is there any mention of his name ? ” 

“ Some speak of him as being still with Edward, his only 
surviving prop and consolation — the sweet- voiced traitor; 
and others say he shared Gaveston’s fate; if so, the English 
have but taken justice out of our hands, and so God speed 
them.” 

“ Peace, Seaton, peace,” returned the king, somewhat 
sternly ; “ speak not so wrathfully of that poor misguided 
boy. The saints forefend that such should be his miserable 
fate ; while he lives I may hope yet to clear this mystery.” 

“ Mystery, what mystery ? ” fiercely interrupted Edward 
Bruce. “ Is there aught of mystery in his public devotion 
to his country’s bitterest foe? in the fact that the same lip 
which swore with such pretended emotion loyalty to Bruce, 
should forswear itself in similar vows to Edward? Mys- 
tery, that the craven should prefer riches, honor, security, 
in an English court, to danger, poverty, privation, in the 
camp of Bruce ? Pshaw ! there is little of mystery here.” 

“ Edward, I tell you there is much, much. I will never 
believe that this came to pass freely and fairly; that boy 
had too much of his mother’s spirit in him to draw back 
thus, and desert a cause he so nobly embraced.” 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


407 


“ Embraced in his earliest youth, my gracious liege,” re- 
joined Lennox. “ Your highness’s remembrance of that son 
of a rebellious house does indeed honor to thine heart, but 
trust me, will find no response in his youthful enthusiasm. 
The presence and counsels of his exalted mother might well 
occasion the bold loyalty he at first displayed; but parted 
from that mother and that cause, her voice hushed, nay, per- 
haps her very existence hidden from him, in the very midst 
of a court noted for licentiousness and pleasure, made the 
pet and plaything of a luxurious monarch, is there mystery 
or marvel in this change ? My liege, dismiss this misguided 
scion of the Comyn from your kindly thought; he is not 
worthy of the regret, the affection thus bestowed on him.” 

“ Lennox, Lennox,” answered the king, urgently, though 
mildly, “ I doubt not the wisdom or experience of your 
maturer judgment, I would not do it wrong; yet, my friend, 
were this boy other than a Comyn, thinkest thou, thou 
wouldst thus quarrel with my feelings, my doubt of this 
strange tale ? Answer me frankly : were Alan other than a 
Comyn, would not thy judgment be other than it is? ” 

“ In sober truth, my liege, it would ; but when we have 
had such bloody proofs of the Comyn’s undying hatred to 
the Bruce, and treachery to Scotland — hatred from all who 
bear that name, from the serf to the lord, inciting not mere 
open warfare, but midnight assassination, or poisoned meal 
— is it well, is it wise, to except one to the diabolical in- 
famy of the line, because, before he mingled with them, he 
had seen and heard but loyalty, and fancied himself loyal? 
It is better, perchance, he is the traitor they proclaim him; 
it had been a bitter pang to him to feel himself alone of 
that base line. And by my knightly faith, I fear, even in 
this camp, in the very face of seeming loyalty and patriot- 
ism, he would have met mistrusters ; that name, that black- 
ened name, how could its bearer pass unquestioned ? ” 

A low deep hum of assent passed through the lordly 
crowd at these words, betraying but too clearly how com- 
pletely the sentiments of the aged nobleman were echoed 
by his fellows. Sir Amiot alone neither spoke nor moved. 
He was standing close beside, rather behind, the sovereign’s 
chair, and his tall form partly shadowed by the drapery of a 
curtain; he had been the most eagerly animated of all who 
discussed the expedition to England, smoothing every diffi- 
culty advanced by others. Hone knew the effort it was to 
speak thus, or even if they had, none could have discovered 
its cause, little dreaming there could have been anything in 


408 


THE DAYS OF BKUCE. 


Lord Edward Bruce’s blunt conference, to which alone the 
effort might be traced. The sudden start occasioned by the 
king’s first words concerning Sir Alan Comyn was con- 
trolled so speedily and successfully, it escaped observation, 
and he resumed the post he was about leaving; glancing 
first at the sovereign and then on his nobles, and once or 
twice with difficulty restraining speech, he stood proudly 
and yet more proudly erect; but his fellow-nobles were all 
too much engrossed in their own speculations to notice him. 

The king had listened to the assenting voice with a 
painful expression of sadness on his noble features, then 
rousing himself, said, cheerfully: “ Not with us, my good 
lords, not with us. I had no shadow of doubt as to the 
truth, the loyalty that ill-fated boy expressed ; I should have 
honored, trusted in him, aye, in the very midst of the dark 
treason of his line. Even now, did he return to me, ac- 
knowledge his error, swear renewed fidelity, I would, for his 
mother’s sake, forgive and believe him. Still there is mys- 
tery, I say again; nay, there are times I believe his tyrant 
father, carried on by passion, did wreak his murderous 
vengeance on his son, and to disguise or conceal the hor- 
rible deed, has forged this tale. Laugh an ye will, my lords, 
at your monarch’s incredulity, but till that boy be brought 
before me, and I see his own proper person, hear from his 
own lips this tale, I’ll not believe it.” 

“ Surely it were better for us to learn a lesson of your 
grace’s noble charity, than laugh at it,” unexpectedly inter- 
posed Sir Amiot, speaking very slowly, as if under some re- 
straint ; “ for my own part, my liege, I would fain think 
with thee.” 

“ Because you know little of that false line from which 
the stripling springs, my good friend,” answered Edward 
Bruce. “ Did you know them as we do, you would think as 
we do, and marvel less at the benevolence and kindness with 
which his highness speaks, for that is natural, than at the 
want of wisdom such credulity implies. However he might 
trust that boy again, I should hold it my duty to prevent it, 
if by no other way, by the sharp steel.” 

“ And I, and I, and I,” responded many voices. 

“ Methought the Countess of Buchan bore such a name 
for loyalty and patriotism, her son might be judged more 
kindly,” continued Sir Amiot, still in that same guarded 
tone. “ There are brave tales told of her.” 

“ And rumor for once speaks truth, and less than truth,” 
replied Lord Edward, frankly ; “ she is a great, a good, a 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


409 


glorious woman! I would lose my left hand to-morrow, to 
gain her freedom. Had her son been still under her control, 
he would never have been the thing he is, nor I have doubted 
him, although his name be Comyn.” 

“ But surely, my lord, that influence could have been of 
little worth so soon to pass away. Bethink thee, a mother 
hath great power, and he was not, I have heard, so young 
when they were parted.” 

“ Right, Amiot, right ! ” exclaimed the king, as he rose 
to depart. “ Beshrew me, thou hast spoken wisely, and 
somewhat more kindly of a stranger than these good knights, 
who knew and seemed to love him. Trust me, that mother’s 
power will one day be proved. He is more a Duff than a 
Comyn, I’ll be sworn, and if he be in Edward’s court, ’tis 
force not love that keeps him.” 

“ Every man to his own thoughts, my royal brother,” 
rejoined Edward Bruce, as the king courteously quitted the 
chamber; “ thine are perchance those of a forgiving, mine 
of an avenging warrior. There was never yet a Comyn who 
was not enemy to the Bruce, whose blood showed not the 
same black poisonous stream, however mingled with a 
purer — and root and branch I’ll sweep them from the earth.” 

He clinched his hand threateningly, and the dark scowl 
of vengeance gathered on his brow. There were many to 
join him in hatred of this race, in vowing their extermina- 
tion. Others speculated a little longer on the real situation 
and politics of the young heir of Buchan, and others again 
eagerly returned to the exciting thoughts of an expedition 
into England, and so the assembly dispersed. 

It was very late before Sir Amiot had concluded some 
military arrangements with his colleagues, and found him- 
self quietly at his quarters. His couch was ready, his page 
in attendance, but there seemed no inclination on his part 
to avail himself of these comforts; he flung himself down 
on the first seat that presented itself, and covered his face 
with his hands. Malcolm looked at him with great surprise 
and some alarm; at length, “To England, my noble master; 
think, at length we march to England,” he said, half hesitat- 
ingly, half joyously. “ And the Lady Agnes goes with us 
to make our triumph the more complete.” 

“Triumph, what triumph?” demanded his master, sud- 
denly looking up, but speaking in a tone so hollow, it pre- 
sented a strange contrast to the page’s joy. 

“ Hay, now, my lord, something must in truth have gone 
wrong for you to ask me this. Will it be no triumph when 


410 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


her freedom is won, no triumph when this disguise may be 
cast off, and you stand forth your own noble self ? ” 

“ Malcolm, Malcolm, cease, in mercy ! ” passionately es- 
caped Sir Amiot, and he strode up and down the room as 
one wrung almost to frenzy. “ I, too, once believed this 
would be a triumph, a glorious triumph; but now, now let 
me but gain her freedom, and lie down and die ! ” 

“ My lord — Sir Amiot ! ” exclaimed the page, and he 
gently took his master’s burning hand. “ Oh, you are ill, 
you must be, or you would not speak thus — gain her free- 
dom and die ! How would she bear this, she to whom thou 
art all in all ? ” 

“ She believes me dead ; why undeceive her ? ” he an- 
swered, though he was evidently softened, for he sunk back 
into his seat, and the hand his page held trembled with emo- 
tion ; “ why undeceive her, when it will be but to see me 
scorned and shunned as a traitor, leagued with traitors? 
They have told me this, their own lips have sworn, root and 
branch, to exterminate the traitor line, and why, why should 
I escape? No, no, better die than bear this — she, she shall 
live to be happy. They have told her I am dead, and she has 
mourned for me as dead — she will now weep no more.” 

“ But if they have told her the lie that rumor hath con- 
veyed even here, the black, slanderous lie ? ” 

“ Malcolm, she’ll not believe it — no ; did an angel swear 
it. No, she would not wrong me thus!” exclaimed Sir 
Amiot, again starting up. “ She would believe me dead, 
but not that black lie; not that even force hath made me 
villain. No, no, she’ll not believe it! ” 

“ She would not, would not, my noble master — in truth, 
she would not; and trust me, none else will, when she pro- 
claims thee hers. When men remember years of fidelity, of 
courage tried in many a well-fought field, will they dare re- 
peat these slanders? No, no, they judge thus because they 
know naught of him whom they condemn. Gain but her 
freedom, and show thyself the noble being that thou art, 
that thou hast ever been.” 

“ I would I had thy hopeful heart, my faithful Malcolm,” 
replied his master, pausing in his hasty walk, and laying his 
hand caressingly on his young follower’s shoulder ; “ but 
hadst thou heard all that I have, thou, too, wouldst feel that 
scarce could be. Well, well, let it be; my path lies onward, 
my vow is not yet fulfilled, and till it is, my heart must not 
fail me, even though ’tis crushed and bruised ! ” 

“ Do not speak so, my lord ; think, only think we march 


THE BAYS OF BRUCE. 


411 


to that land, to that very city where the foe holds her pris- 
oner; her freedom must be, shall be gained.” 

Sir Amiot shook his head. a We have marched to that 
city before, my good boy, and marched from it and left her 
there; and hope was stronger then than it is now. Mal- 
colm, my soul is deadened, hope hath no voice within.” 

“It is silent that reality may be more joyous yet; oh, 
trust me, thy vow shall soon be accomplished, thy name be 
known, honored, shouted aloud as the friend, not the foe of 
the Bruce, and then,” he looked archly in Sir Amiot’s face, 
“ the Lady Isoline, my lord ” 

“ Will be the bride of Douglas! ” and Sir Amiot’s voice 
grew stern with emotion. “ Malcolm, speak not of her. 
King Robert gives his niece to Douglas, and she will be his 
bride.” 

“ Douglas — the bride of Douglas,” and the boy laughed 
long and lightly, though not disrespectfully ; “ an that is all 
thou fearest, good my lord, shake off the fancy as thou 
wouldst the nightmare of thy sleep. The bride of Douglas, 
that Lady Isoline will never be ! ” 

“ And wherefore not ? ” demanded Sir Amiot, roused de- 
spite of himself. 

“ Simply because Lady Isoline will never marry, even to 
please King Robert, the man she loves not.” 

“ And how knowest thou that she loves not Douglas ? ” 

“ How ? never mind, my lord, but trust my eyes better 
than thine own. And now surely, your lordship will to 
rest ; already I see the first gleam of morning.” 

Sir Amiot followed his advice, soothed and roused from 
his despondency, even to his own wonderment, by his page’s 
eager words. It is strange how brightly and beautifully 
hope will return to the human breast, even after she has 
seemed crushed and forever. The knight would in truth 
have found it difficult to define wherefore his feelings had 
undergone so complete a change in so short an interval; 
why the buoyant hopefulness of the young Malcolm should 
so extend itself to him, when in truth it had but words, 
glowing words, no foundation on which to rest. Still he 
was young, though his peculiar situation had given him the 
sadness and experience of age, and Nature will sometimes 
speak when her voice has appeared hushed : and she spoke 
now, when Hope relit her torch — for it is youth, elastic, 
springing youth, and youth alone, to whom Hope is a 
guardian angel, a reviving spirit, unknown to maturer years. 
The deep wound the nobles so unconsciously had inflicted 
27 


412 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


had turned his thoughts from other painful subjects, and 
the soothing of the first seemed to shed balm upon the last, 
though, alas! only for that one night; the next morning 
showing him Douglas ever at the Lady Isoline’s bridle-rein 
but too vividly recalled the words of Lord Edward Bruce, 
and dashed his returning spirit with deeper gloom. 

“ Does the Lady Isoline know whose liberty you seek, my 
lord ? ” the page asked him, carelessly, on one of their daily 
marches southward. 

“ How can you ask ? of course, no. My vow forbids, for 
if I breathe her name, I tell my own,” was the reply. To 
which the page rejoined : 

“ Would that she did, my lord, for she is proud, and if 
she thinks ” 

“ Thinks what ? ” demanded his master, but the page had 
spurred off to finish his soliloquy elsewhere. 

The movements of King Robert’s army were, as usual, 
rapid and successful. Pouring down on the north of Eng- 
land from the Cheviot Hills, the country soon displayed the 
marks of his progress. Houses, castles, villages fell before 
the sweeping arms of the avengers, for so the soldiers now 
looked upon themselves, and gloried in the title. 

Divided into two stout bands, the first, under command 
of the renowned Douglas and Randolph, made such rapid 
and triumphant way, that the second band, following more 
leisurely, appeared more like the quiet progress of a con- 
queror through an humbled soil, than the rear-guard of an 
advancing foe. In this band was the king, and with him 
his niece, the Lady Isoline, whose high spirit gloried in the 
triumphs that she witnessed, to the utter exclusion of all 
personal thought of danger. Her safety, however, was but 
little endangered, for the English made no resistance, flying 
before the advancing armies, as if all dreams of strife and 
war with such a foe were worse than futile. But Isoline 
was still a woman, though a daring one, and many a time 
did her benevolence, her tender thought for the sorrowing 
and injured, soften the horrors of their fate, and bind them 
in chains of amity and kindness to their conquerors, in- 
clining them of their own accord to terms of peace and 
friendship. She hovered, like a ministering angel, amid the 
iron warriors composing her uncle’s troops excited and ex- 
citing, giving vent to all the natural resolution of her char- 
acter ; looking on the skilful manoeuvre, the sagacious 
march with an eye, clear, intelligent as any of those whose 
trade was war; a mind pleased and interested, yet never 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


413 


losing one atom of the delicacy, the refinement, the dignity, 
the gentleness of her sex, never intruding a remark which 
might be deemed unwomanly. She was in truth a lovely 
specimen of woman in the chivalric era ; one uniting in her- 
self every quality that could fascinate a soldier either in 
the battle-field or tented bower, and hold him there a willing 
prisoner to her power. Few, indeed, who gazed on her im- 
agined how large a share of woman’s peculiar feelings lay 
shrined in that little heart ; that even now, while every word 
breathed energy, every glance spoke fire, or softened into 
sympathy with all who needed it, there were thoughts and 
pains within, which perchance had bowed some others of 
her sex even to the earth, or wrapt them up in selfish musing 
and unquiet gloom. If any dream of a mood too masculine 
entered an observer’s soul, he had but to look on her with 
the afflicted Agnes, to mark how soothingly and fondly she 
would forget all else to tend and to caress her, and the dream 
would vanish quicker than it came. 

There was a change too in the temperament of Agnes, 
which this expedition had made perceptible. The wild, way- 
ward fancies of childhood which had characterized her wan- 
derings in Scotland now gave way much more often to a 
loftier mood; a spirit sometimes approaching inspiration, 
sometimes so nearly resembling perfect sanity, that it would 
rouse eager hopes in the breast of both her sovereign and 
Isoline, aye, and in another, too, who loved her none guessed 
how dearly; but his hopes were mingled with fears, for 
every time she appeared more than usually conscious, less 
engrossed with inward fancies. Sir Amiot seemed intuitive- 
ly to perceive the frame grew weaker and more fragile ; and 
while he longed he dreaded to behold a return of mind. 

Occupying a high station near the person of his king, 
Sir Amiot’s opportunities of associating with Isoline were 
more frequent than satisfactory. She did not avoid, but 
she did not invite his attention and devotion as she had at 
first; and he, believing there was more truth in Lord Ed- 
ward’s words concerning her love for Douglas than he chose 
to own even to himself, and feeling too that he could have 
no claim upon her, that even if her heart were disengaged, 
how might he, a nameless adventurer, wrapt in mystery, 
hope for a place within it ? — he, too, kept aloof, seeking, how 
vainly may be imagined, to keep his heart and thoughts 
fixed on the object he once hoped would alone engross them 
— the liberation, the happiness of one who, until he beheld 
Isoline, had reigned without a rival in his love. Through 


414 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


lingering years he had struggled on for Scotland, yet, 
coupled with his soul’s desire for her freedom, was a yet 
dearer object, his daily thought, his nightly dream; when 
the darkness of despondency gathered thickly around him 
on the battle-field, that object sustained him still; and 
though, perchance, he cared but little for his life, that life 
was not his own, he had vowed unto her, and that vow 
should be fulfilled. He looked to but one spot in the future 
— her liberation; the rest was all a blank, to be filled up 
he knew not, cared not how. Though not always had he 
thought thus; there had been a time when young ambition 
looked to that liberation as but the sunrise of glory, as the 
opening of a long vista of radiant gladness, in which fame, 
love, honor, all had had gleesome resting; but years had 
stolen on that boyhood’s dream, with all the sickness of hope 
deferred, and though that object was still the life, the pivot 
of his being, his visioned future now ever ended with its 
attainment. 

King Robert gained his daring purpose. The ancient 
city of Chester was not only reached, but, as if in reckless 
challenge of the English power, for a few weeks he en- 
camped there, receiving deputations from the four northern 
counties, entreating peace, and, following the example of 
the Bishopric of Durham, whose capital city had been 
stormed in a night, offered the sum of two thousand marks 
for redemption from further attack, and solemnly entering 
into an engagement with the Bruce, which granted him the 
privilege of marching through their territories whenever he 
wished to make war on England. This was too eligible an 
offer to be refused. The king accepted it, far more as a 
tacit acknowledgment of his power, than with any present 
idea of availing himself of it; and in consequence, when 
he had given his army sufficient rest, retraced his steps 
northward, with as little molestation as if he had been 
making a progress through his own kingdom. Encamping 
again at Hartlepool, he thence dispatched Douglas with half 
his army to Carlisle, in the hope of reducing that city to 
obedience, determining himself to attempt that of Berwick, 
which still resisted the Scottish arms. For this purpose he 
did not remain very long at Hartlepool, but departed, taking 
with him most of his army, leaving only a small but steady 
troop, under command of Sir Amiot, to follow more leisure- 
ly, with Isoline and Agnes, whom he left under that knight’s 
especial care. 

It was on the evening of the fourth day’s march from 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


415 


Hartlepool that Sir Amiot found himself for the first time 
riding abreast with the Lady Isoline, at such a distance 
from his soldiers, who were surrounding the litter of Agnes, 
that they were comparatively alone. It was perhaps strange 
this had not occurred before, for the lady had certainly not 
appeared to avoid him, but it so happened that a group of 
young officers had generally joined Sir Amiot and his 
charge at the head of the cavalcade. This evening, however, 
Lady Isoline had expressed a wish to explore a wild pictur- 
esque path, leading down from the main road. Sir Amiot 
had accompanied her, and on returning to the line of 
march, about a mile further, they found themselves much 
ahead of their followers. 

“ And amid all the castles, convents, towns, and cities 
that have acknowledged King Robert’s power, can it be 
your object is still unattained, sir knight, or have you 
wearied of the hope, and wait till chance effect it ? ” Isoline 
inquired, after the conversation had continued for some 
time in an animated strain on King Robert’s triumphant 
progress, and other chivalric topics. 

“Wearied of my hope? no, lady, I had wearied of my 
life sooner,” was his somewhat mournful answer. “ It is 
indeed ever fading, but can never wholly depart. I did look 
to this expedition to bring it nearer; that in some castle in 
our way I might find the captive whom I seek. I hoped 
Edward’s policy had not retained her so many years in the 
weary durance in which his father’s tyranny had placed her ; 
but if she be still there — which now I say Heaven grant she 
be — I still hope, for Berwick is our destination.” 

“ Berwick ! Have you certain intelligence then, the cap- 
tive you seek is there? Think you not it is more probable, 
an she be of the rank and power you describe, she shares 
the imprisonment of the Queen of Scotland and her train ? ” 

“ It may be,” replied the knight, musingly ; “ perchance 
it is, and yet Edward must be indeed contrary to his father, 
an he grant her such honorable keeping. I speak in seem- 
ing mystery, lady ; would, would it were not so, that in thy 
kindly ear I might pour forth a tale which, simple as in real- 
ity it is, mystery hath turned to marvel.” 

“ I would there were no mystery, for thine own sake, sir 
knight,” replied the lady, kindly. “ Trust me thou hast 
mine earnest wishes for its speedy dissolution.” 

“ And blessing on thee, lady, for that kind tone ! ” an- 
swered Sir Amiot, passionately. “ Oh, lady, I deemed my 
vow of easy keeping, that I should scarce wish more than 


4:16 


THE HAYS OF BRUCE. 


liberty to fight under King Robert’s banners, and thus ob- 
tain its fulfilment; but since I have known thee, oh, my 
heart hath throbbed and burned to cast aside this shrouding 
guise and tell thee I am free; that, spite of poverty, of a 
name, that when spoken may perchance fling down an 
eternal barrier between its bearer and the Bruce — despite of 
these, I am free, unshackled — free to offer unto thee the 

lowly homage thy nobleness demands — free to, to ” 

“ Kay, sir knight, I pray thee a truce to chivalry,” said 
Isoline, at the same moment causing her palfrey to spring 
forward, to enable her to control a sudden emotion, she 
knew not whether of pleasure or of pain ; “ I wish compan- 
ionship not homage now, Sir Amiot, and to a graver subject 
— what thinkest thou of the Lady Agnes ? the change in her 
can scarce have passed thee unobserved ? ” 

“ It has not, lady; I see it with joy yet trembling, for I 
fear me the frame will scarce have strength to sustain the 
sudden weight of mind restored.” 

“ Thinkest thou so, indeed ? alas ! how may we then de- 
sire its return. Her innocence, her childlike purity so en- 
dear her that I cannot think of losing her without a pang, 
though by herself death would be hailed with joy.” 

“ Heath — oh, speak it not ; she must not, she shall not 
die yet ! ” fell from Sir Amiot’s lips, in tones that at once 
deadened the sudden elasticity with which a moment before 
Isoline’s spirit had leaped up. “ She is a being so beautiful, 
so lovable in her affliction — oh! who is there can look on 
her and not love ? and to me — oh, what is she not to me ! ” 
He paused abruptly, conscious how contradictory and 
strange his words must seem; but it was too late, they were 
spoken, though he would have given worlds to recall them. 
He glanced on the face of Isoline, a grave inquiring look 
had usurped the place of the playfulness resting there be- 
fore ; he felt its expression one almost of contempt, and his 
spirit absolutely writhed beneath that self-inflicted pang. 
At that moment, perhaps fortunately for both, as neither 
seemed inclined to renew the conversation, an officer spurred 
on from the troop. 

“ There is mischief afoot, Sir Amiot ! ” he exclaimed. 
“ Gave not King Robert positive orders that neither city, 
castle, nor convent should be injured, or even threatened in 
this northward march ? ” 

“ He did; who has dared disobey?” and Sir Amiot was 
once again the steady soldier, his whole attention given to 
his charge. 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


417 


“ I scarcely know, save that some of our men have ob- 
served a band of marauding borderers hovering about these 
districts, and overheard some intimation of an attack on the 
Convent of Our Lady of Mount Carmel, lying somewhere in 
this direction. There is smoke rising yonder, and me- 
thought sounds as of attack and wailing were borne toward 
us on the wind. Will it please you I should ride forward? ” 

“Halt a moment, Fitz-Ernest; my authority perchance 
will be needed. Will it please you, lady, to accept the escort 
of Sir Ronald St. Clair, and permit my riding forward? it 
were scarce safe for you to encounter this wild band, 
checked as they will be in their pillage, and yet I must see 
to the maintenance of the king’s commands.” The lady 
signified her assent, and Sir Amiot, hastily informing his 
colleague of his intention, and entreating him to bring his 
fair charge leisurely forward to their night quarters, which 
lay in the direction of the convent, divided his band, and 
galloped forward with a hundred men. It was rapidly ap- 
proaching dusk, but some faint sounds of tumult proved an 
unerring guide, until smoke and flames marked the site of 
the village round the convent, which was situated on one 
of the Cheviot Hills. The suddenness of Sir Amiot’s ap- 
pearance, the strength and skill with which his strong- 
armed band bore down on the border plunderers, speedily 
forced them to give way, and compelled them at the sword’s 
point to acknowledge and give instant obedience to the writ- 
ten mandate of the king. Leaving fifty of his men to en- 
deavor to quench the flames and keep the peace, Sir Amiot 
rushed up the steep, informed by his prisoners below that 
their strongest band was there employed in the sacking of 
the convent. The oaken doors of the church had been 
broken down, and already was there a rude band employed 
in tearing the gold and silver ornaments from the shrines, 
with oaths and horrid laughter desecrating that solemn edi- 
fice, accustomed only to the voice of prayer. A moment 
sufficed for Sir Amiot to notice this, and also that, grouped 
in various attitudes, stood, knelt, and crouched the holy 
sisters around the altar, the abbess and one or two others 
alone standing erect in lofty and undaunted composure ; the 
former boldly addressing the rude plunderers, and com- 
manding them to desist, or dread the thunders of the 
Church. 

“ Hold your reverend tongue, good mother of wisdom, 
and let us to our work. We never molest unless we are 
molested, so best let us work in peace.” 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


418 


“ In peace, sacrilegious villains, aye, in such peace as 
King Robert grants to all such thieves ! ” was the fierce and 
unexpected answer received, as, some on horseback, some on 
foot, their iron heels clattering fearfully on the stone pave- 
ment, Sir Amiot’s loyal band rushed in. There was a brief, 
sharp struggle; but taken by surprise, conscious of their 
liability to the severity of King Robert’s law, most of the 
plunderers left in confusion, glad enough to escape the 
swords of their countrymen, or, what was perhaps worse to 
them, captivity. Some fled to the mountains, others to the 
village, and there shared the fate of their companions; but 
in a very brief interval all trace of their purpose was lost, 
save in the smoking ruins of the hamlet, the disordered 
state of the church, many of whose beautiful images lay 
shivered on the floor, and the still lingering terror of the 
nuns, which neither the example nor the expostulations of 
the abbess could in any degree assuage. 

“Away, Sir Thomas Keith; take some of the men, and 
search well round the convent. I fear me, those irreverent 
ruffians will elude us yet, and do some further mischief. 
Place a strict watch around, and do you, Walter, draw off 
the remaining men; we do but terrify these holy ladies. I 
fear me ye have suffered much, reverend mother,” continued 
the young knight, turning with respectful courtesy toward 
the altar, and doffing his helmet ; “ I pray you lay no blame 
to the score of good King Robert; this outrage is against 
his express commands, and will draw down his just venge- 
ance on its perpetrators.” 

“ Kay, we ask not vengeance,” replied the venerable ab- 
bess ; “ it is enough your courage, young man, and that of 
your companions, under Him, whose instruments you are, 
has saved us from this evil; we have suffered merely the 
effects of terror, which will speedily be calmed. Retire, my 
daughters, each one to her cell, and pour forth your several 
thanksgivings, till the church be once more ready to receive 
our general praise ; surely we need it, for the mercy has been 
signal. Sister, you are ill, overcome,” she added, hastily, as 
a deep, heavy sigh, almost a sob, was heard to escape from a 
tall, dignified-looking female, closely veiled, and dressed in 
the black, shrouding robes of those inmates of the convent 
who were under its rules and discipline, though, from some 
unknown cause, had not taken the vows. The church was 
almost all in gloom, but the lamps burning on the altar 
gave the knight a full view of this shrouded figure, on whom 
his eyes had unconsciously been fixed, even while the abbess 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


419 


spoke. Perceiving that her agitation, from whatever cause 
it sprung, rather increased than diminished, compelling her 
to seek the support of a seat, Sir Amiot, with the kindly 
feeling peculiarly natural to him, flew to seek some water, 
and then it was the stranger raised her head, and finding 
herself almost alone with the abbess, murmured in tones 
that, though low, were absolutely thrilling in their rich- 
ness: 

“ The voice of my country, and in such sweet tones ! oh, 
holy mother, thy calm and gentle heart cannot know what 
they are to me — and the glance of that dark eye, though 
I could see no other feature, oh, what could it be, to bring 
back memory so vividly, till the dead seemed to rise again 
and live? Pity me, pray for me, holy mother; I knew not 
how weak my brain had grown.” 

“ Alas ! my daughter, thou hast borne so much, no mar- 
vel that even so slight a thing as the voice of thy country 
should unnerve thee now. Imprisoned so cruelly, impris- 
oned for so many years, tortured in mind through so many 
causes, oh, I am not so withered in brain and senseless in 
heart as not to feel how much need thou hast for our 
prayers; but our God is merciful, my sister, trust in Him 
still.” 

The lady bowed her head in resignation, and Sir Amiot 
returning at that instant, she accepted the courteously 
offered draught with a silent but expressive gesture of 
thanks, then rising, took the arm of one of the nuns, and 
slowly departed, leaving Sir Amiot with his eyes still riveted 
upon her, he knew not wherefore. He was aroused by the 
abbess again addressing him. 

u We would fain offer you something more substantial 
than mere thanks, young knight,” she said. “ I fear those 
ravagers have done sad havoc among our poor people, yet 
perchance there are still farmers enow to give your com- 
panions good fare and lodging at our sole charge. We 
grieve that the rules of our order prevent our offering your- 
self and your brother knights the hospitality that inclina- 
tion prompts; but a few yards below there, to the east of 
our convent gates, is a small fraternity of monks, who will 
gladly give ye all ye need.” 

Sir Amiot frankly accepted the hospitality so offered, 
adding, that he would draw on her kindness yet more, by 
beseeching a lodging in the convent for the ladies of whom 
he had the charge, as their residence elsewhere might almost 
be considered unsafe, from the borderers who had fled, and 


420 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


who were perhaps likely to attempt some annoyance from 
their having been so thwarted in their intended outrage. 
The abbess expressed pleasure in having it in her power to 
afford this protection, and the knight departed to dispatch 
a speedy messenger to Sir Ronald St. Clair, telling him all 
that had chanced, and desiring him to conduct his fair 
charge without delay to the convent, which, only five miles 
from their intended quarters, presented a secure and com- 
fortable asylum, well worth the additional fatigue. The 
rank and name of Lady Isoline, and also all that was abso- 
lutely necessary to be imparted concerning the peculiar situ- 
ation of the Lady Agnes Bruce — for she now only bore her 
husband’s name — were told to the abbess, and Sir Amiot 
sending forward his brothers-in-arms to the small mon- 
astery pointed out, himself mounted his horse and rode 
back to meet his charge. 

“ Is my sister well enough to join us in the refectory, or 
will she take her meal alone ? ” inquired the abbess, entering 
the chamber of the lady before mentioned, the effects of 
whose emotion had prevented her joining the sisters in the 
general thanksgiving which had been offered up directly 
after Sir Amiot’s departure. 

“ N ay, indulge not my weakness by the offer, holy moth- 
er,” was the reply, with a calm, quiet smile ; “ your whole- 
some rules must not be infringed by me, who am in truth 
but your prisoner.” 

“ Say rather our esteemed and honored guest, despite the 
fearful feuds between our several countries,” answered the 
abbess, gently. “We have taken little interest in this un- 
happy war, save to pray God to direct and bless the right, 
whichever side it be; but for thee, my daughter, we can 
feel much. We have guests, Scottish guests, this night, and 
therefore I would fain spare thee further pain; an thou 
canst look on them and speak with them without emotion, 
be it so ; but an thou fearest the trial, remain here, with my 
blessing on thee still.” 

“ I know not now how far I may trust myself, holy 
mother,” replied the stranger ; “ once I knew not the very 
name of weakness, and could ever exercise control. But 
tell me, who may be the Scottish guests ? I may perchance 
know them too well for composure in their presence, and 
then I had best be absent.” 

“ King Robert’s niece, the Lady Isoline Campbell, with 
her poor afflicted friend the Lady Agnes Bruce, and some 
three or four attendants.” 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


421 


“ Lady Agnes Bruce ! Who, what is she ? I remember 
no such name,” the lady said, somewhat abruptly, starting 
up as she spoke. 

“ The widow, Sir Amiot tells, of the youngest brother of 
the Bruce, the beautiful and accomplished Nigel, one of the 
earliest victims in this bloody war. Sancta Maria! my 
sister, what have I said ? ” 

She might well ask, for the stranger had fallen back in 
her chair, so utterly prostrated by sudden emotion, as with 
difficulty to retain her senses, and recall them sufficiently 
for speech. 

“ And knowest thou who she was ere she became the 
wife of Nigel?” she asked, in a low, gasping tone, laying 
her trembling hand on the arm of the abbess. “No; the 
knight did not tell thee, then I will. The wife of the 
noble Nigel was the Lady Agnes Comyn, daughter, sole 
daughter, of Isabella of Buchan — the wretched, lonely 
Isabella.” 

“ Alas ! alas ! my daughter, if it be so, how mayest thou 
bear to hear of her affliction ? ” responded the venerable ab- 
bess, flinging her aged arms round the bowed and droop- 
ing form, with an emotion little in accordance with her pas- 
sionless features and sacred function. 

“ Affliction — what affliction ? In mercy tell me ! ” 

Briefly and carefully as she could the abbess narrated all 
she had heard from the knight. For a while the stranger 
listened with that fearful calm of feature betraying intense 
mental suffering, but gradually it softened, and tears fell 
fast and unrestrainedly, and partially relieved her. 

“ I ought to be thankful for learning even this, for hav- 
ing the agonized hopes and doubts of weary years solved 
even thus,” she said, “ and I will after a brief while ; but 
to think on that mind overthrown — that lovely, that angelic 
mind; to picture suffering such as hers, and apart from a 
mother’s love! Oh, holy mother, ’tis a bitter pang, and it 
must have way ; but can I not see her, look on her ? ” she 
continued, clasping her hands in sudden hope, then drop- 
ping them despairingly. “ Alas ! we have both forgotten 
the condition on which I am here. What have I pledged 
myself to Edward? tell me, oh, tell me, for my brain re- 
fuses thought ! ” 

“ In truth I had forgotten it, my daughter, yet I know 
not if it bear on this : to associate with no children of Scot- 
land who might by chance enter here, lest your person be 
discovered, and force used on King Robert’s part to give 


422 


THE DAYS OF BKUCE. 


you freedom; to hold no communication, either personally 
or by the agency of another, with your friends in Scotland; 
to reveal yourself to none, lest measures be taken for your 
liberty, over which, in the present distracted state of the 
kingdom, his highness can have no control. Indeed, I had 
forgotten this, holding you but as a dear and cherished 
guest.” 

“ But I must not forget it,” replied the lady, with a dig- 
nity of mien and firmness of tone which at once betrayed 
the mental struggle was passed. “ I may not hazard recog- 
nition. The Lady Isoline was in truth but a child when we 
last met, yet she may not have forgotten. And Agnes, my 
poor afflicted one — oh, no ! better sacrifice the longing wish 
to gaze once more on her sweet face — perchance I could not 
bear to feel myself unknown, unrecognized by her — her, my 
own; but I must not speak thus. Tell me, oh, tell me, 
where she sleeps. I may look on her there, though the 
voice for which my heart has so yearned may be silent, the 
light of those lovely eyes concealed. It were indeed bliss 
to hear somewhat of my country, of my king, my friends, 
to speak with Isoline — but no, it must not be, I will not 
think of it. Holy mother, let me but see my Agnes when 
she sleeps, I ask no more.” 

“ And thou shalt, thou shalt, my daughter ; would that 
I might give thee more, but thou wouldst not take it were 
it offered ; it were but torturing thy noble spirit, and tempt- 
ing thee to forget its pledge. I leave thee, daughter; the 
Holy Virgin bless and comfort thee.” 

The lady bowed her head before her venerable friend, 
and as the door closed on the retreating form, she sunk on 
her knees in prayer. Oh, not with us is the power of touch- 
ing on the wild chaos of thought which she sought, in deep 
and lowly earnestness, to pour before her God. We may 
not lift the veil from that bleeding heart — true, faithful, 
noble; still rising purer and purer, if possible, from every 
trial which bowed it for the moment to the earth. 

It was past midnight, and all in the convent was hushed ; 
but there were thoughts at work in the heart of Isoline, 
banishing sleep so effectually, as to cause a feeling almost 
of envy at the quiet slumber — soft, dreamless as a child’s — 
which closed the eyes of Agnes. They shared the same 
apartment, but the couch of Isoline occupied a recess, some 
distance from that of Agnes, and almost concealed by drap- 
ery. Knowing they were to depart early in the morning, 
Isoline had not entirely disrobed, and she now lay vainly 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


423 


courting repose, and, as is often the case, her nerves so 
strung, that the least sound startled them. She fancied a 
light footstep traversed the chamber, in a contrary direction 
to the usual door of entrance ; her heart beat thick with un- 
defined dread, but struggling with the feeling, she sat up 
and looked round. A female figure was kneeling beside the 
couch of the sleeping Agnes, shrouded in drapery except her 
head, from which, as if in the eager haste of her movement, 
the hood had fallen off, and exposed at once her expressive 
features, the peculiarly fine shape of her head, and the rich 
black hair, which even sorrow and care had not yet touched 
with gray; she was very much in shade, but still there was 
something in the form of the head, in the attitude, in the 
intensity of her gaze on the beautiful sleeper, that riveted 
the attention of Isoline almost to pain. She watched her 
intently, she saw her bend over Agnes, and lightly removing 
the long soft hair which partially concealed her face, looked 
upon it with a depth, an intensity of love, that Isoline could 
not remark unmoved ; minutes rolled by, and still she 
moved not, gazing as if her eye would print those features 
on her heart. Mournfulness mingled with the love, as if 
there was a change on that face only too visible, spiritualiz- 
ing its expression, till it seemed as if that gazer could scarce 
believe it a face of earth, for once or twice she bent down 
anxiously, Isoline fancied to listen if she breathed. Her 
lips were pressed lightly on the brow, cheek, and lips of the 
sleeper, and her form shook as with the effort to restrain a 
sob, and then she bent her head on her hands as she knelt, 
and Isoline knew that she was weeping. A sudden thought 
— becoming conviction on the instant it flashed before her — 
caused Isoline to spring from her couch and dart across the 
chamber, till she stood close beside that kneeling form; but 
she was unobserved, unheard, and she could not speak to 
disturb that holiness of love. Again the stranger rose, 
again she looked on Agnes, and pressed her lips to her 
brow, and lingered, as if she had not strength to turn away, 
then, as with a powerful effort, she moved hastily from 
the couch, and her full face and form were exposed to the 
eyes of Isoline ; the stranger started and endeavored to draw 
her hood closely over her features, but with all the enthu- 
siasm of her nature, Isoline in an instant had flung her- 
self before her, had clasped her knees, exclaiming, in tones 
only checked from fear of disturbing the sleeper, “ Oh, 
do not leave me, lady, without one word; my mother’s 
friend — friend of my whole race, of my country — speak 


424 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


to me. Oh, what joy to my sovereign to know that we 
have met ! ” 

The Countess of Buchan — for wherefore should we con- 
ceal that it was her? — hastily and affectionately raised the 
maiden, then clasping her in a warm embrace, gently led her 
further from the couch of Agnes, and said, “ Thy memory 
is better than I deemed it, my sweet Isoline. I believed 
thou, too, hadst slept, or even the blessing of gazing on my 
child had been denied me.” 

“ Denied thee,” repeated Isoline ; “ alas ! wherefore ? 
Why, if they told thee we were here, didst thou not seek us 
before? But thou wilt away with us, wilt thou not? thou 
wilt not rest here? Oh, why dost thou look sad? — is it 
impossible — art thou still a prisoner? it cannot be.” 

“ My child, ’tis even so ; my word has passed, and were 
King Bobert and all his kingdom before these convent gates, 
they could not give me freedom, till Edward says ‘ be free/ 
I may not hold commune w T ith thee, Isoline, blessed as 
’twould be. I have heard that Bobert is indeed a king ; that 
my beloved Scotland is free. I have seen my child, my own 
sweet Agnes, and I must ask no more. I have pledged my- 
self to shun all intercourse with the children of my country ; 
and oh, my sweet girl, thou must not tempt me with those 
pleading looks, I am not what I was.” 

“ But force of arms, of victory — the whole north of Eng- 
land hath bowed itself at King Bobert’s feet; can he not 
claim thee, then, as his lawful prize ? ” 

“ Alas ! no, my child, for it is against such a contin- 
gency my word has been pledged; without thus revealing 
myself, King Bobert nor any of my friends could know my 
retreat. More than once already my residence has been 
changed, because of visits, either in peace or war, from the 
Scotch, and that Edward has either doubted my w T ord or im- 
agined chance might effect my discovery. There are rumors 
of another change, but earnestly I trust they have no foun- 
dation, for I have met with warmer spirits, kindlier feelings 
here, than I dared hope for or expect.” 

“ Then my uncle, my mother even, may not know of 
this. Oh, do not burden me with such a secret, lady,” en- 
treated the ardent Isoline, clinging closer to her. “ Oh, you 
know not how we love thee still; how all in King Bobert’s 
court and camp pronounce with reverence thy name; how 
thy bold deed hath marked thee foremost midst the first and 
noblest of our country’s patriots. The very rumor that thy 
cruel thraldom is at an end, that at least thou art compara- 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


425 


tively at peace and rest from all torture save restraint, would 
be such blessing to so many.” 

“ Would it, indeed, my Isoline? am I still thus remem- 
bered, or is it but thine own loving heart that speaks? Oh, 
thou hast indeed blessed me with these words; they will 
cheer my desolate heart; they will picture brighter dreams 
than I dared to look on, even at the thought of freedom. 
But I must not, dare not linger, sweet one, though my full 
heart knows not how to tear itself from thee and from my 
Agnes — my own, my precious child, and now, alas ! my only 
one.” Her voice, which had breathed more hope, more 
happiness in her first words than she herself could have be- 
lieved possible from so slight a cause, sunk with the last so 
painfully, that it seemed as if days not years had passed 
away since her supposed bereavement. Isoline started; was 
she not aware of her son’s existence, or did she speak thus, 
discarding him from her affections on account of his treach- 
ery, his alienation from his country? was patriotism indeed 
so much stronger than maternal love? She looked on the 
face of the countess, and felt it could not be. Something 
on her countenance aroused her companion’s attention, 
and convulsively grasping her hand, she wildly exclaimed, 
“ Isoline, Isoline, thou knowest something of my boy ! Oh, 
speak to me, in mercy ! he is with King Robert — he is not 
dead ! ” 

“With King Robert — alas! no, dearest lady. But hast 
thou not heard — have they not told thee ? ” 

“ Heard — told me — torture me not by these meaningless 
words ! say but that he lives.” 

“ ’Tis said, indeed, he lives, sweet lady, not for Scotland 
now, but as the petted minion of King Edward, the most 
devoted of that monarch’s court.” 

“ Isoline, they speak false ! ” replied the countess, in a 
tone that, suppressed as it was, almost electrified the hearer, 
it was so changed from the desponding sorrow of a minute 
before : “ they speak false ! my boy is dead, an this is all 
thou knowest; they have sought before to pour such poison 
in my ear, but I heeded them not, for I know that it is false. 
My child is dead, slain by a father’s mandate, and thus, thus 
would he conceal his crime — and stain my angel Alan’s 
name. And thou tellest me this — thou, daughter of Isa- 
bella’s dearest friend, niece of him to whom my boy, with 
tears of shame at his line’s disgrace, did swear his faith. 
Oh, how may it be my name is reverenced as thou sayest, 
and yet this foul tale believed ? ” 


426 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


“Not by King Robert, lady; he holds it false, believing 
it as thyself a base invention framed to hide a fathers 
crime, or else that force not love compels the course of ac- 
tion he pursues.” 

“ And blessings on him for that thought ! ” resumed the 
countess, softened almost to tears ; “ but no force would 
compel him thus. Perpetual imprisonment, chains, torture, 
death, would rather be his choice, and it has been ; for he is 
dead, I know that he is dead,” and her head for a moment 
sunk on the shoulder of her deeply sympathizing compan- 
ion. “ This must not be,” she said at length. “ It is sad to 
feel how utterly my mental strength has gone ; it is well for 
me thou only art its witness, Isoline. Love me, pray for me, 
sweet girl ; we may meet perchance in happier times, unless, 
indeed, my freedom be effected by a higher king than 
Robert, and my spirit join my child’s. I need not bid thee 
love and cherish my poor Agnes — thou must, or thou 
wouldst leave her to other care than thine.” 

“ Dear to me, cherished, tended as my own sister she is, 
sweet lady; aye, has been and will be, while she lives; trust 
me for her,” replied Isoline fervently. 

“ I do trust thee, my child, aye, and bless thee for that 
love. May Heaven’s choicest blessing shield you both ! ” 
she folded Isoline fondly to her bosom as she spoke. “ And 
now farewell ; forget that we have met, yet love me, dearest, 
till we meet again.” 

“ And the king,” inquired Isoline, gently detaining her, 
as she turned again to the couch of her child, “ must he in- 
deed know naught of this? He deems thee still enthralled 
in Berwick’s cage, and grieves that one who did for him so 
much should still pine ’neath such tyranny.” 

The countess paused in thought. 

“ Let him not grieve for this,” at length she said, “ nor 
spend his strength in the vain hope of reducing Berwick’s 
impregnable fortress for my release. Tell him, an thou 
wilt, that we have met, that I am in comparative peace, but 
bound by stronger chains than iron to remain a prisoner till 
he effect my liberation by other means than force; yet let it 
not be publicly said that I am here, for my instant change 
of abode will be the consequence, and that would give me 
pain. Now, once more farewell, dearest. Speak of me to 
thy mother, tell her I love her still.” 

She gently withdrew herself from Isoline’s passionate 
embrace, and bent once again over Agnes, who still slept 
calmly, undisturbed by those whispering voices; again she 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


427 


printed a long, light kiss on that pale, beautiful brow, and, 
without venturing another glance, glided from the chamber 
silently as she came. 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

A bustling scene to the quiet inmates of the convent did 
the courtyard of our Lady of Mount Carmel present soon 
after dawn the following morning. Sir Amiot had drawn 
up his men in marching array, ready to do honor to his fair 
charge, and their glittering spears and radiant armor, their 
waving plumes and flying banners, the prancing and neigh- 
ing chargers, all presented a scene of life, which its extreme 
novelty rendered peculiarly charming. Sir Amiot had sug- 
gested that a band of fifty picked men, under an experienced 
officer, should remain quartered in the village, lest the 
border plunderers should return, a suggestion the abbess 
gratefully accepted, herself and several of the elder sisters 
escorting the Lady Isoline and her companions to the 
gateway, where their palfreys stood. Eagerly Sir Amiot 
scanned the holy sisters, longing, he knew not wherefore, to 
look once more on the shrouded figure whose agitation had 
been so marked, but he saw her not. As his band wheeled 
slowly round the mountain, and he himself tarried, helmet 
in hand, to speak some courteous parting words to the ab- 
bess, his farewell bow was slightly disturbed in its grace by 
his eye catching, or fancying that it caught, that same noble 
form at an upper window, watching the progress of the sol- 
diers. The question, “ Who is she ? ” hovered on his lips, 
but he checked it as an idle curiosity, and galloped after 
his men. 

The remainder of their journey to Berwick passed with- 
out incident. The Lady Isoline appeared little inclined for 
conversation, and kept closer to the litter or palfrey of 
Agnes, and Sir Amiot, though burning with impatience to 
clear himself in her eyes from all appearance of mystery or 
inconsistency, felt the impossibility of so doing too pain- 
fully, to venture intruding on her presence or attention un- 
asked, and therefore little or no conversation of any mo- 
ment passed between them, and their further progress to 
Berwick was about as unsatisfactory, in consequence of this 
mutual reserve, as may well be imagined. 

28 


428 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


All was military bustle around Berwick. Operations 
had already begun, though it was rumored that King Robert, 
perceiving the immense strength and impregnability of the 
fortress, somewhat hesitated as to the wisdom of wasting 
time and force on its reduction. That the Countess of 
Buchan was still supposed to be imprisoned there was the 
greatest if not the only cause of the king’s determination to 
pursue the siege. The cage was still visible from the turret ; 
but though it appeared empty, it was generally believed 
throughout the army that the countess had been only re- 
moved to mislead her friends, and cause them to raise the 
siege, and in all probability she was still in the same for- 
tress, but in a more secluded prison. 

Much surprised, then, were the troops when, about a fort- 
night after Sir Amiot and his charge rejoined them, the 
king publicly announced his determination to give up Ber- 
wick, at least for the present, send the greater part of his 
army to the aid of Sir Edward Bruce, who, returning suc- 
cessful from levying the Irish tribute, was then engaged in 
reducing every English-garrisoned fortress in Scotland to 
obedience, and march himself in a southwesterly direction 
to the sea-shore, where the galleys, sent by his brother, 
awaited him for the proposed expedition against the Isle of 
Man, whose governor, a branch of the hated house of Lorn, 
had several years previous treacherously and basely betrayed 
two brothers of the Bruce, Thomas and Alexander, into the 
hands of Edward. 

Douglas had been successful in forcing Carlisle to terms, 
compelling its seneschal to pledge himself to peace with 
Robert, and make no disturbance when the Scottish troops 
marched southward. On these conditions he was permitted 
to retain his office, and the castle remained nominally Ed- 
ward’s. This accomplished, Douglas was to march his 
troops northward, at the same time that the king proceeded 
south, meet him at the destined port, and proceed with him 
to the Isle of Man. Isoline and Agnes, under the care of 
Randolph, were to return to Scotland. 

The real, though secret cause of the king’s determination 
to leave Berwick had been confided in a small, private coun- 
cil of the highest nobles and warriors of his realm, at which, 
strange to say, the Lady Isoline was present. Nothing, 
however, publicly transpired, except the fact of their return 
to Scotland, a determination occasioning a disappointment 
to some of the most ardent, who had looked to nothing less 
than the complete downfall of Berwick although the more 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


429 


numerous were satisfied that if King Robert’s resolution, it 
must be a wise one. Sir Amiot, however, who had not been 
one of the above-mentioned council, being absent on some 
temporary mission from the king, on his return appeared so 
thunderstruck by the intelligence as to occasion the extreme 
surprise of his companions. Seeking the monarch’s tent, he 
told him he had resolved to ride round the walls of the for- 
tress, attended only by his page ; ask a question, and receive 
an answer of the principal warder, and on his knee he be- 
sought the king to grant him permission for the accomplish- 
ment of his wish. Robert remonstrated, gently reproved 
the knight-errantry of the engagement as tending more to 
foolhardihood than real courage, but was at length com- 
pelled to yield, convinced, by the earnest manner of the 
knight, that some important though unexplained cause 
originated the resolve. 

Great was the excitement this decision of Sir Amiot 
occasioned, particularly among his immediate colleagues, 
ardent and far more joyous than himself, many of whom 
longed to share his risk; but there was one person in the 
camp to whom it was a subject of most serious alarm. 

“ Can it be, that the wise, the moderate, the prudent 
Chevalier of the Branch is about to risk his life thus fool- 
ishly ? ” was the unexpected address of the Lady Isoline 
Campbell to Sir Amiot, as they chanced to meet in the sov- 
ereign’s tent. 

“ Trust me, noble lady, my life, worthless as it is, save 
to her whose liberty I seek, is in no danger; yet do not 
scorn my grateful thanks for thy gentle counsel,” replied Sir 
Amiot, in a tone that, despite all her efforts to the contrary, 
thrilled only too softly on her heart. “ I told thee, noble 
lady, I looked to Berwick for the fulfilment of my hopes, 
the restoration of the prisoner I seek, and in that, restora- 
tion of my name. Can I see these hopes prostrated, crushed 
by this unexpected resolution of his highness, without one 
effort, even if it risk my life or liberty, to have them solved ? 
Oh, lady, thou knowest not Amiot, an thou thinkest this 
could be.” 

“ And how may this wild plan assist thee ? ” inquired 
Isoline, with a softened expression in feature and tone, 
which gave him courage to proceed. 

“ I know not — in truth, I cannot know ; but it is worth 
the trial. Oh, if she be still there, still the prisoner of Ed- 
ward’s wrath, night and day will I kneel before King Robert, 
beseeching him to turn not from this spot till yon proud 


430 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


citadel be gained, or its prisoners delivered up ransomless 
and free. If she be not,” his voice sunk into utter despond- 
ency, “ then I must turn again unto my weary path, hoping 
against hope, striving against time ; knowing so little of her 
fate, that I may be seeking one who is not, dreaming of one 
who will never bless me more.” 

“ Nay, an so much depend on thy adventure of to-mor- 
row,” replied Isoline kindly, “ go, and God speed thee ! re- 
member only, thy life is not thine own to fling away as 
nothing worth. E’en if the prisoner thou seekest be not 
here, she may still be elsewhere.” 

“ Dost thou, canst thou feel interest in that life ? ” mur- 
mured the knight, bending his dark eyes upon her, with an 
expression which at the moment she felt she dared not meet. 
“ Oh, lady, an thou dost, e’en were this hope void and vain 
as many another, life were still not all a desert — it had 
still one dream of joy.” 

“ Sir Amiot,” replied the lady, so calmly and firmly, that 
every half -rising hope shrunk back at once, “ I listen not to 
such words, meaningless and void as they must be, with this 
mystery still clinging round you. I would believe you 
honest as you seem, noble and single-minded as you are 
faithful to King Robert, and gallant in his cause; give me 
not occasion to change this opinion by a renewal of words, 
which are somewhat too seriously spoken for mere gallantry, 
and yet can mean nothing else. I honor your devotion to 
an injured and imprisoned one; I could have wished to be- 
lieve that one alone the object of your devotion, but I have 
by chance heard words addressed to and witnessed emotion 
occasioned by another which, increasing the mystery around 
you, compels me to feel that even were my conclusions 
wrong concerning the object of your vow, there is yet an- 
other existing cause which prohibits my listening to such 
words. I would fain believe you intend no insult, naught 
that could awaken indignation and displeasure on my part; 
that they are mere words of courtesy, somewhat too high- 
flown perchance for our relative positions, but an my favor 
be worth preserving, speak them not again.” 

She bowed slightly, perchance haughtily, and passed on; 
her beautiful form more proudly erect, her fair cheek slight- 
ly flushing, but giving no other bodily sign to contradict the 
calm and steady self-possession of her words. Sir Amiot 
stood bewildered, scarcely comprehending, and certainly not 
composed enough calmly to analyze sentences, whose sole 
effect appeared to be to dash down hopes, of whose very ex- 


THE DAYS OF BKUCE. 


431 


istence and whose powerful extent he was scarcely and cer- 
tainly not at all conscious before. 

The next sunset found Sir Amiot of the Branch in his 
tent; his adventure so gallantly yet so coolly performed, as 
to awaken the admiration not alone of his own friends but 
of the English on the walls, whose surprise at his daring 
paralyzed their arms, and permitted him almost an un- 
molested course. It was a deed in the very spirit of the 
age ; both citizens and garrison looked on in stupefied f 
amaze, as, armed cap-a-pie, his lance in rest, and followed by 
his daring page, holding aloft his master’s banner, with the 
same bearing as his shield — the blighted branch — he slowly 
and deliberately made the circuit of the castle walls, directly 
under the darts and arrows of the soldiers, several of which 
struck his armor and bounded from it as if the steel were in 
truth invulnerable, and the knight bore a charmed life. He 
neared the drawbridge, was seen to halt before the warder’s 
tower, spoke some brief words to that officer, but in a tone 
too low for the spectators of either side to distinguish their 
sense, though they observed with alarm that a band of Eng- 
lish soldiers were silently and cautiously advancing, as if to 
surprise and surround him. The knight looked round him 
with a calm and proud smile, bowed courteously to the 
warder, and passed on, so utterly unintimidated by the foes 
gathering around him as to awaken a shout of applause both 
from English and Scotch, and loud and fierce was the com- 
mand of the English governor to the closing troop to bear 
back, and give the brave knight way. 

Shouts and gratulations received him in his own camp ; 
his companions crowded round him, eager to give him 
the meed of admiration, which in their young chivalric 
breasts had no shade of envy. Each troop shouted joyously 
as he passed, and even the king himself felt it almost impos- 
sible to preserve his grave disapproval of the erratic deed. 

It was some time before Sir Amiot could break from his 
companions and seek the rest and quiet of his own tent, 
which even in the midst of that excitement, he seemed to 
crave; and when he was there alone with his page, all ani- 
mation fled, leaving in its stead a sinking despondency, 
which his brave companions would have found it difficult 
to solve. For some time the page removed his armor in 
silence, but then, finding his master made no effort to rally, 
he cheerfully exclaimed : 

“ Do not despond, my dear master; rather rejoice that 
my beloved lady is removed from that horrible confinement, 


432 


THE DAYS OF BKUCE. 


that though still a prisoner, she may be in comparative peace 
and comfort.” 

“ But how may I know this, Malcolm? True, I should 
rejoice that at least she is no longer incarcerated where that 
tyrant Edward placed her, six years ago ; but how may I rest 
secure as to her comfort? May it not be that because Ber- 
wick is now so near triumphant Scotland, her prisons are 
changed, but not their severity? She may be in equal suf- 
fering elsewhere.” 

“ Hardly, my lord ; there cannot be two such horrible 
places of confinement in England, particularly when we 
know this was erected by the tyrant’s brutal policy expressly 
for her. Ho, trust me, if Edward has had pity enough to 
remove her from here, it is to place her in some more com- 
fortable asylum, perchance even with Queen Margaret.” 

“ But w T here, oh where ? ” repeated his master sadly. 
“ Such thought does but lengthen the line of separation ; 
for until the king can ransom those captives whose rank will 
only make Edward more tenacious of their persons, she, too, 
must languish a prisoner, and I can in no wise shorten that 
captivity. Better had she been still a captive in some north- 
ern castle, where my own right arm might give her freedom ; 
and so she may be still, and yet concealed from me — and 
still, still, my hope is vain.” 

“ Hay, an thou thinkest thus, my lord, and sayest, did a 
northern castle contain her, thine own right arm should 
gain her freedom, give me but leave of absence from the 
camp for a brief while, and trust me, an she be in the north 
of England, be it castle, prison, or convent, I will find her.” 

“ Convent ! ” repeated his master, starting up, as if 
under the influence of some sudden thought. “ Malcolm, 
Malcolm, have I been such an idiot, a blinded, witless fool, 
as to be in her presence and not know it — can it be ? no, no, 
it is impossible ! ” 

“ In Heaven’s name ! my lord, what mean you ? ” ex- 
claimed the page, astounded at such unlooked-for and mys- 
terious emotion. “ In her presence, and not know it ? oh, 
’tis impossible. When — where — how could it be ? ” 

A few hurried words sufficed for the ready-witted boy to 
understand to whom the knight alluded, although he com- 
bated the fancy as impossible ; however veiled and shrouded 
she might be, he declared his master must have known her. 
In vain Sir Amiot urged he had seen not a feature, heard 
not a tone of her voice, and with his firm conviction that 
she was still in Berwick, it was more than possible he had 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


433 


failed to recognize her. Malcolm still seemed to think the 
fancy too vague for reality. 

Sir Amiot’s first impulse was to beseech the king’s per- 
mission to retrace his steps, instead of accepting the honor- 
able commission offered in his homeward march; yet, as his 
page wisely alleged, what good could that possibly effect? 
It was far better for him (Malcolm) to leave the camp, and, 
commencing with the Convent of Mount Carmel, leave no 
stone unturned to discover her retreat. Left to his own 
measures, he assured Sir Amiot he could discover infinitely 
more than were he in company with others. He was certain, 
were she in any part of the north of England, however close- 
ly concealed or strictly guarded, he would find her out, and 
so watch the movements of her keepers as to learn every 
minutiae concerning her present fate and future destination. 
That done, it would be time for Sir Amiot to lay down his 
plans for her liberation, or at least the alleviation of her 
captivity; till then, his master had much better remain 
where the favor of the king had placed him, and not give 
rise to any remark by even hinting a desire to leave the 
camp. The boy spoke so well and earnestly, Sir Amiot felt 
he could advance little against his argument, and conscious 
he boasted not a tittle more than he really could perform, 
consented to give him the leave of absence he demanded, 
and conjured him in God’s name to do all he said speedily as 
might be. A definite period for his absence Malcolm could 
not or would not name; he would rejoin Sir Amiot, with- 
out fail, as soon as he had obtained the necessary intelli- 
gence, or at least obtained some clue, however slight, to her 
destination ; more he might not promise, and Sir Amiot felt 
satisfied, for he knew that, next to himself, the liberation of 
this important prisoner was dear to Malcolm. The fol- 
lowing morning the page was to depart; but ere that night 
closed, even this engrossing subject fled for the time being 
from Sir Amiot’s mind. 

A large party of knights and noblemen supped that even- 
ing in King Robert’s tent, and many a jest mingling with 
graver topics enlivened the festive hour. The king’s seat, 
almost imbedded in the thick tapestried curtain that lined 
the canvas-covering of the tent, was divided several paces 
from the larger board, round which the more numerous of 
his warrior guests were congregated. Lennox and about five 
others of the senior noblemen, with two or three of his fa- 
vorite knights, not amounting to more than ten altogether, 
shared the monarch’s private table, five on either hand, and 


434 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


thus leaving an open space for him to look over his other 
guests, and sometimes join their converse. Sir Amiot de- 
tained somewhat later than the rest by his exciting conver- 
sation with his page, had taken his seat at the bottom of 
the second table, which was exactly facing the king’s seat, 
and commanding a clear view of the thick curtains behind 
it. On his way to the pavilion he had observed a dark 
shadow hovering, or rather crouching down outside, on a 
spot just answering to the sovereign’s seat within, but be- 
lieving it Robert’s favorite hound, who often ensconced 
himself there, between the canvas and the lining, he passed 
on without further notice. He had not been long seated at 
table, however, before he fancied there was some movement 
in the tapestried folds, which could scarcely be occasioned 
by the wind, still he thought of the dog, and believed the 
movement proceeded from the animal’s endeavoring to ex- 
tricate himself from his retreat. A sudden bark, not two 
paces from him, however, proved the fallacy of the idea, for 
there was King Robert’s hound close beside him, endeavor- 
ing, as it seemed, to arrest his attention. The shadow, then, 
which he saw, could scarcely have been the dog, and Sir 
Amiot, spite of himself, felt strangely startled; still he 
shrunk from noticing such slight signs aloud, for define 
what he saw or imagined was impossible. Presently the dog 
darted up the tent to the king’s side, barking and restless, 
and furious when attempts were made to remove him from 
that one particular spot. For a while the king endeavored 
to soothe and pacify him, but that not succeeding, and an- 
noyed at the animal’s pertinacity, he desired one of the at- 
tendants to take him from the tent, a proceeding not effect- 
ed without difficulty. His attention yet more awakened by 
this incident, Sir Amiot still kept his eye fixed on the drap- 
ery, but for so long a time after Bruin’s retreat without dis- 
covering any movement, that he believed he had been merely 
under a delusion, and turned again to the board. Hot long 
after, he was certain a gleam of steel flashed on his eye, pro- 
ceeding, he could have sworn, from that same drapery, 
wdiich again slightly moved ; neither the king nor any of his 
immediate companions were in armor, and there certainly 
was nothing near them to have caused that sudden flash. 
With a silent but irresistible impulse, Sir Amiot quietly 
glided from his seat, and passing along the folds of the 
inner drapery, stood on the left hand of the king, nearly 
concealed by the curtain, almost before his absence from the 
table was discovered. It was well he did so, another mo- 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


435 


ment, surrounded though he was by his faithful subjects, 
dreaming naught of treachery, closely shrined by hearts who 
would willingly have died for him, yet even then Robert the 
Bruce would have fallen beneath an assassin’s hand, and the 
foul murdered escaped. Sir Amiot had moved with silence 
and caution, not alone to prevent observation on the part of 
his companions, but the better to watch the movement of 
the curtain, that if treachery did indeed lie ambushed there, 
it might not take fright at his vicinity, and escape ere its ex- 
tent was ascertained. It was a daring plan, relying so much 
on his own single arm and personal address — but the knight 
knew his own power; he stood so completely between the 
king and the drapery, that no blow could reach Robert ex- 
cept through him — and the blow came. A dagger flashed 
in the air and fell, but, checked violently in its downward 
path by the bright sword of Sir Amiot, it snapped in two, 
the blade hurled violently across the king’s table, giving the 
first sign, the first intelligence of the imminent danger the 
sovereign had escaped, followed instantly by the loud voice 
of the knight, “ Ha ! traitorous villain, thinkest thou to es- 
cape me ? ” a fierce though momentary struggle, and a pow- 
erful form, clad from head to foot in mail, for his shroud- 
ing cloak was torn aside, was flung violently to the ground, 
the knee of Sir Amiot was on his breast, the voice of the 
knight bidding him avow his treachery and die. In an in- 
stant all was wild uproar ; nobles and knights sprung simul- 
taneously to their feet, their swords gleaming in their 
hands, execrations on their lips ; the whole camp wild with 
confusion. The king alone, though startled, preserved his 
undaunted composure. 

“ Peace, peace ! ” he exclaimed, waving his hand to com- 
mand control ; “ w r e are safe, uninjured, thanks to my brave 
Amiot, though how he came so close to us at such a critical 
moment, by my kingly faith, I know not. Give way there ! 
Unhelm the villain — we should know that form.” 

He was obeyed on the instant. Still prostrate, motion- 
less, as if the failure of his desperate deed had been attended 
with a complete suspension of sense, the mailed figure lay 
beneath the knee of his captor. The helmet rudely and has- 
tily unclasped, rolled off, disclosing features of a ghastly 
paleness indeed, but whose swarthy hue, expression coarse, 
almost to brutality, and black bristly beard and hair could 
belong to one alone. With a wild, shrill cry, which at an- 
other moment would have turned the attention of every one 
upon him, Sir Amiot sprung to his feet as if a dagger had 


436 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


pierced his heart, his poniard dropped from his nerveless 
grasp, his brain turned giddy, and a strong effort alone pre- 
vented his falling to the ground; he staggered back, till he 
found temporary support against one of the posts of the 
tent, and there stood, his eyes glaring on the prisoner, so 
changed from the Amiot of a minute before, as if some spell 
had turned him into stone ; but so great was the excitement 
of the moment, and startling to all the identity of the pris- 
oner, that the strange emotion of the knight was unre- 
marked. Raised from the ground, his arms strongly pin- 
ioned, and so surrounded that escape was utterly impossible, 
they placed the prisoner before the Bruce, on whose noble 
brow the dark, terrible frown of wrath and hate was gather- 
ing ; but dark as was his look, yet darker, fiercer was that of 
the foiled assassin; for not alone was it hate, undying, 
quenchless hate, but despair, the fell despair of hate and 
murder foiled. 

“ ’Tis even as I thought. Earl of Buchan, we have met 
again,” said the Bruce, speaking in those slow, suppressed 
tones terrible to all who heard, for, they knew the fierce 
struggle that was at work within. “ Man of guilt and 
blood, was it not enough to bind thine hirelings to a deed 
of midnight murder — enough, that twice, thrice, nay, seven 
times, a gracious Providence stretched out His arm ’twixt 
me and them, and proved how weak is guilt? Could this 
not satisfy thee, but thine own mind must essay the mur- 
derer’s steel, thine own mind frame an act of murder? Oh, 
thou hast done well! Nobles and knights will henceforth 
be tried in the light of John Comyn, Earl of Buchan; an 
they possess his knightly and noble qualities, the loudest 
voice of fame and chivalry must needs be satisfied.” 

“ Deemest thou so bounded was the Comyn’s hate, that 
aught of what men term fame and honor could weigh 
against it? ” replied the prisoner, gloomily. “ Robert of 
Carrick, I thought you had known men better. Didst dream, 
because some score of hirelings failed to accomplish the 
deed of death, Comyn of Buchan would swerve from the 
hate which, stronger than any vow, bound him to thy de- 
struction? Murder — -nay, an thus thou speakest, I have 
learned the trade from thee.” 

“ Away with the sacrilegious villain — away with the 
murderous traitor ! ” shouted many eager voices, and there 
was a rush as if to drag him from the tent, but at a sign 
from the king they paused. 

“ Nay, let his idle words have vent, my friends,” he said. 


THE DAYS OF BKUCE. 


437 


“ The Bruce would have given his head to Edward’s axe ere 
he would have secured his safety by the treacherous murder 
of his foe. To you I need scarce say this; then what evil 
can that bold bad man’s insinuations do? No, an it give 
him pleasure, let him rail on.” 

“ Pleasure ! ” repeated the imprisoned earl, with a scowl 
and tone of concentrated hate. “ Ye have foiled me in the 
dream of years, the vision which has been the only bright 
gleam of my existence — thy death — thou hated foe of the 
house of Comyn; for this I bade them report me dead. I 
hid myself from man to brood on this, to arm my followers 
against thee, and bid them die accursed if they failed; for 
this I have hovered round thy path, well-nigh lashed to 
madness, when weeks, months rolled on, and found me still 
seeking that which the veriest chances seemed determined to 
deny me. To-night, to-night I would have done it, aye, in 
the midst of thy proud court, thy mock parade of royalty: 
who would have saved thee ? Murderer, thou wouldst have 
fallen; ten thousand curses light on him who stood be- 
tween me and my revenge ! ” 

A low convulsive groan, as wrung from the very depth of 
agony, filled up the pause which followed these words. Men 
knew not, traced not whence it came, for their spirits were 
still under too great an excitement for such a slight sound 
to be remarked. 

“ Murderer — the name is threefold thine,” replied the 
Bruce, calmly. “ Villain, where is thy son, the brave and 
noble boy whose only crime was loving Scotland and his sov- 
ereign better than his race? What hast thou done with 
him? lieth not his murder at thy door, and darest thou 
speak of blood ill shed ? ” 

“ Aye ; for on him I did no murder,” replied the earl, 
bluntly and freely ; “ the boy was wise, and chose honor and 
life and a monarch’s favor rather than perpetual chains. 
Look to thyself, thou upstart shadow of a sovereign; his 
father’s vow is in keeping — he hath learnt the hate and 
claims of Comyn.” 

“ False, false — ’tis false as hell!” was slowly and dis- 
tinctly uttered by some one within the tent, but none knew 
or traced by whom. 

“ Aye, by my kingly faith, I still believe it false, and 
would say thou liest, base traitor ! ” resumed the king, stern- 
ly. “ But wherefore bandy words with such as thee ? Thy 
hate to ourself we pardon, but not thy treachery to Scotland. 
Away with him ! to-morrow’s dawn he dies.” 


438 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


There was no need for a second bidding; with a fierce 
yell of triumph and detestation, they dragged him from the 
presence of their sovereign. They stripped him of his 
armor, loaded him with chains, and, with a strong guard 
both within and around the tent which served them for a 
prison, left him to his meditations. 

“ And where is our brave preserver, our gallant and faith- 
ful Amiot? We have been detained only too long from ac- 
knowledging our grateful feeling of his loyal service. We 
would fain know how he was at our side when most needed ; 
a minute before, methought we pledged him at the board — 
where is the gallant knight ? ” So spoke King Robert, when 
some degree of order was restored within the tent, but Sir 
Amiot had disappeared. 

To allay the clamor and excitement which the news of 
this providential escape from assassination created in the 
camp, King Robert mounted his horse, and, all unarmed as 
he was, slowly rode through the several ranks which had 
gathered under their respective leaders to receive him. 
Nothing could have given them a stronger proof of his own 
utter fearlessness of any further lurking treachery, or a 
more gratifying sign of his perfect confidence in their love 
and devotion as his dearest safeguard from such treasonous 
attacks; they thronged round him as he appeared, making 
the night eloquent with their rude yet heartfelt cheers of 
love and gratulation. 

Deeply moved by these heart-stirring manifestations of 
a people’s love, it was only when seated in the quiet and soli- 
tude of his private pavilion near midnight, he found leisure 
to remember that he had not remarked Sir Amiot among 
the groups of officers he had passed, and he was rising to 
make some inquiry concerning him from an esquire in the 
ante-chamber, when the missing knight himself stood be- 
fore him. 

“ At length, my noble Amiot ! ” exclaimed the monarch, 
springing up and grasping his hand, despite the young 
man’s resistance ; “ where and wherefore hast thou been hid- 
den these long hours, letting my gratitude lie on my heart 
till it has well-nigh choked me? Shame on thee! knowest 
thou Scotland owes to thee a king and Bruce a life ? ” 

“ Nay, good my liege, my lowly service demands not any 
spoken gratitude ; my thanks are to Heaven, that I was His 
selected instrument in thus preserving thy most precious 
life; but for aught else, my noble sovereign, speak not of 
thanks : that thou art saved, uninjured, is enough, oh, more 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


439 


than enough — ’tis blessedness for Amiot! What had I 
been in this camp without thee ? ” 

“ What ? why a noble soldier still,” replied the sovereign, 
joyously. “ Did I make thee the gallant warrior, the pru- 
dent counsellor, the able general thou art? No, Amiot, no; 
thine own good qualities have won thee love and estimation 
in the camp, aye, and still more, in Robertas breast; and 
now, because that is not enough, an Scotland loves me 
as she would manifest, and we would fain believe, why, she 
owes thee a debt of gratitude she never can repay; for, 
by my faith, hadst thou not been beside me, that one mo- 
ment had been my last. And, what, in Heaven’s name, 
brought thee there, so coolly and calmly shielding us 
from the villain that the danger was unknown till it was 
passed ? ” 

Sir Amiot related the signs he had witnessed, and the 
suspicions they had occasioned, acknowledging that he was 
so little conscious of the actual danger which threatened, 
that he scarcely knew how he had warded off the blow, or 
how obtained possession of the murderer. 

“ And my poor hound would have warned me, had I 
listened to him,” mused the king, patting the faithful ani- 
mal’s noble head, as he lay crouched by his side. “ Bruin, 
Bruin, canst thou forgive me ? ” 

The dog licked his hand, as in mute reply, and the king 
continued : 

“Ah, that’s well; and now, Amiot, what ails thee? 
Thou hast something on thy heart, something that grieves, 
or at best torments thee; thou hast told a tale that at an- 
other time would have lighted up that dark eye of thine with 
living fire, and made thy voice ring out with animation, and 
now thine eye is dull, and thy voice is grave. What ails 
thee, boy? Speak not to the king, but as to thy friend, thy 
father, if thou list.” 

“ In truth, there is a weight upon my heart, most gra- 
cious sovereign, and one thou only canst remove,” replied 
the knight, in a low, suffocated tone, and sinking on his 
knee. 

“ Name it then, mine Amiot, in Heaven’s name! it were 
a relief to feel I could do aught for thee, for truly my debt 
to thee is heavy, even forgetting the service of this evening. 
What wouldst thou? surely it needs not thy knee — up, and 
speak to me as friend to friend.” 

“ Oh, pardon me, my sovereign, I cannot rise ! my knee 
is a fit posture for a boon like mine, and one, whose very 


440 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


origin I may not speak. In truth, I came a suppliant, and 
of a boon so weighty, my tongue shrinks from its speech.” 

“ Hay, that may be, and yet the boon be not so very 
weighty, my modest Amiot,” replied the king, encouraging- 
ly. “ Thou thinkest so much of the very smallest kindness, 
that truly I believe thy mental vision magnifies every action 
save thine own.” 

“ Ho, no — judge me not now by the past,” said the 
knight, in a tone of intense suffering. “ My liege, my liege, 
I come to ask that which all Scotland will rise up to deny, 
which every private and public feeling as a man, as a king, 
will call on thee to refuse.” 

“ By my kingly crown, Amiot, thou triest our royal curi- 
osity sorely,” answered the king, still endeavoring to jest, 
though the voice of Sir Amiot jarred painfully on his kind 
heart. “ What is this weighty boon ? out with it — trust 
me, it shall be granted an it can; for what Scotland can 
have to do with a subject ’twixt thee and me, I cannot 
imagine.” 

“ It hath in this, my liege ; the life of an attainted trai- 
tor, a treacherous regicide, is forfeited alike to his country 
and his king. Oh, must I still speak — thou canst not even 
guess my boon, ? tis too wild, too improbable ! my liege, my 
liege, ’tis even so. I would beseech the life of him who hath 
sought thy life, who hath hunted, persecuted, armed a 
hundred hands against thee — even him, the husband of 
Isabella — Comyn of Buchan — in mercy, do not let him 
die.” 

“ This is strange indeed, most strange,” replied the sov- 
ereign, his first start and attitude of extreme astonishment 
subsiding into gravity, nearly approaching sternness ; “ a 
weighty boon in truth, and one how may we grant ? Where- 
fore dost thou ask it — what is he to thee ? ” 

“ Ask not, sovereign of Scotland ; ask not, if thou hast 
indeed one kindly feeling left for Amiot ; ask not, for, oh, I 
cannot answer,” reiterated the unhappy young man, in an 
accent of such utter abandonment, the king felt strangely 
moved. “Had any other hand but mine secured him, ex- 
posed him to this doom, perchance I had not dared implore 
thee thus ; but as it is, his blood, his death will be upon my 
soul, crushing it to earth with a dull, dead weight, against 
which it can never, never rise. Monarch of Scotland, in 
mercy look not on me thus ; there may come a day when this 
dark mystery may be solved, when I may tell thee wherefore 
I thus beseech, conjure thee; but until then, my sovereign. 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


441 


oh, my king, have pity on my deep wretchedness, grant me 
this man’s life.” 

“ That he may arm a hireling band once more against 
our life, pursue with midnight sword or poisoned bowl, till 
his end be gained. Amiot, for ourself we fear him not ; but 
for Scotland, against whom he hath so foully, grievously 
offended, would this be wise ? ” 

“ Condemn him to perpetual exile ; bind him by the 
most solemn oath that man can take, to forswear the shores 
of Britain forever and forever; keep him in ward, under 
charge of the truest officer your grace may select, until some 
far distant shore be gained: do this, my sovereign — I ask 
but his life, only his life. Oh, if thou wouldst not burden 
my life with a weight I can never cast aside, my liege, my 
liege, let not his blood be shed.” 

“ What is Amiot asking so pitifully, gentle Robert ? ” 
said a sweet thrilling voice, so suddenly, that both the king 
and the knight started almost in terror, both too excited at 
the moment to recognize the tones of Agnes, whose light 
form, enveloped in flowing drapery, stood like some spirit 
noiselessly between them ; “ what would he have that Rob- 
ert finds such difficulty in granting ? Grant it, gentle 
Robert, for he is so kind to Agnes, and she can give him 
nothing, nothing in return.” 

“ Tell me first, sweet one, why thou art here — wherefore 
not at rest ? ” answered the king, laying aside all gravity, 
all sternness, to fold his arm round her, and press a kiss 
upon her cheek. “ Must I chide thee, loveliest, seeking me 
at such an hour alone ? ” 

“ Oh, no, thou wilt not, Robert. They told me that thy 
life, thy precious life had been endangered,” she clung to 
him as if terrified even at the thought, “ and there was such 
bustle and noise amid the soldiers, I came to see if indeed 
thou wert as safe and free from ill as they declared thee.” 

“ Didst doubt it, then, my love ? ” 

“ Oh, now I know not what I feared ; not that thou wert 
injured. Ro, no, Robert the Bruce will live; his life is all 
too dear, too sacred for a murderer’s hand. Said not the 
voice of Rigel he shall live, be free, be glorious, and doth he 
not shrine thee round whenever danger comes, and save thee, 
shield thee, that thou mayest be blessed? Oh, none shall 
hurt thee, gentle Robert; no hand shall thrive against thee. 
Thou knowest not how often I list the voice of my noble 
love breathing these solemn words; sometimes they sound 
even ere I see him in his beauteous dwelling — they tell me 


442 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


he is near. But what ailest thee, kind Amiot? thou art so 
sad.” 

“ I plead a life,” huskily murmured the knight, who, 
instead of benefiting by the unexpected apparition of 
Agnes to gain some portion of composure, appeared, if 
possible, yet more agitated. “ Lady, sweet lady, plead thou 
with me.” 

“ Ask it not, ask it not,” hurriedly answered the king, 
more moved than he had yet been. “ Amiot, Amiot, the 
sight of this poor innocent child hath brought darker and 
fiercer thoughts; bid her not plead for one she knows not 
as her father — one who hath heaped such wrongs on her 
mother’s head and on hers, and on her ill-fated brother, be 
he alive or dead, that with loud tones call on us for justice 
and revenge. Traitor against his country and his king, vile 
slanderer of his wife, destroyer of her peace, and of her 
children, and more, yet more than all, sought he not the 
prison of my brother, my noble brother, my own loved Nigel 
— aye, and taunted, vilified, tortured him, raised his murder- 
ing sword against him even then, when the next morning 
beheld his execution? Execution* said I: his foul murder. 
Did he not set Edward on against him, urging him yet more 
fiercely to seek his blood, when the tyrant might have par- 
doned Thomas, Alexander, and Seaton, my sister’s husband ? 
Cries not their blood aloud, and shall I not have venge- 
ance ? ” 

“ Vengeance! who spoke of vengeance?” answered 
Agnes, starting from the sovereign’s side, and standing sud- 
denly erect, voice, feature, movement, all denoting a fear- 
ful state of excitement. “Vengeance! vengeance! said he 
not ? Thou shouldst not dream of vengeance, sully the pure 
flame of patriotism and of freedom. No, no! Robert of 
Scotland, thou shalt not seek vengeance; thou shalt not 
blacken that fair name my Nigel shields. He speaks to thee ; 
he bids thee pause in this work of blood — see, see ! he hovers 
o’er thee — his beautiful smile is gone; he trembles lest in 
this dread trial thy wonted strength should fail. Oh, do not 
anger him ; Robert, Robert, for his sake, seek not vengeance. 
Hark! canst thou not hear? He speaks, he charges thee — 
give up thy vengeance. He will vanish in wrath, fold up 
that lovely form in sorrow. Speak; Robert, Robert, king, 
father, let him not go! Nigel, my beloved, my own, come 
from that shrouding cloud; speak, speak thyself. Oh, he 
hath gone, gone! — and still, still he bids thee seek not 
vengeance.” 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


443 


Her voice had grown wilder, shriller, till its sweet bird- 
like notes were utterly lost, and she had flung herself at the 
feet of the king, convulsively clasping his knees, while her 
beautiful eyes alternately gazed on the king, and then wan- 
dering wildly round the tent, told only too painfully the 
fearful paroxysm, which seeming to bring madness to the 
verge of collected sense, was again in all its horrors upon 
her. In vain the Bruce strove to raise, to soothe her; she 
resisted, reiterating her wild entreaty, until Robert, in a 
low, deep, impressive voice won her ear to listen to these 
words : “ Agnes, it shall be as thou wilt. Alas ! poor suf- 
ferer, thou knowest not for whom thou pleadest, yet if thou 
didst, thou couldst scarce plead more eloquently. Be calm, 
be content, sweet; for thy Nigel’s sake, I swear I will not 
seek vengeance. I will ask mine ow T n heart, and if indeed 
it whisper ’tis vengeance and not justice makes it thus 
inveterate, I swear he shall not die. Will that content 
thee, Agnes? Robert wills not vengeance.” 

“ Content me? Yes, yes! ” she sprung up, clasping her 
hands in joy, but the voice was scarcely articulate from 
faintness; her limbs so trembled Sir Amiot caught her in 
his arms. “ And not me alone — see, he hath come again. 
My love, my own noble love ; he stretches out his arms over 
thee, to bless, to shield thee; he smiles on us both, he calls 
us. Nigel, Nigel, oh, why may I not come? ” she struggled 
to bound forward, but strength failed; her head drooped, 
her extended arms sunk powerless* and she lay like death in 
Sir Amiot’s arms. 

“ Bear her gently hence, good friend : I feared this. Oh, 
when will these terrible attacks depart! Poor child, poor 
child, what have not these horrible wars cost thee ! Gently, 
dear Amiot. Isoline’s tent joins mine, that way; give her 
to my niece’s charge; ’tis all thou canst do, and then do 
thou return.” The king spoke in excessive agitation, and 
Sir Amiot, scarcely less agitated himself, only bowed in re- 
ply, and tenderly bearing the inanimate form of Agnes in 
his arms, vanished by the side entrance to which the king 
had pointed. Robert continued to pace the tent, till emo- 
tion was in some degree calmed. “Yes, yes,” at length he 
unconsciously thought aloud, “ had this foul traitor, this 
ruthless assassin, been other than Comyn of Buchan, I had 
not been thus inveterate, thus determined against my faith- 
ful Amiot’s pleadings; then am I not actuated by venge- 
ance, beside whose grim form justice is but a dim, formless 
shadow? My brother, my brother, hadst thou been in Rob- 
29 


444 


THE DAYS OF BEUCE. 


ert’s place, thou hadst not hesitated thus; and now, aye, 
even now, thou shalt be my guardian angel still. Thy last 
words bade me leave vengeance to other, higher hands; and 
oh, if thou canst look down on earth, thou knowest how 
often that charge hath checked my avenging hand, and 
given life, when every passion shouted slay; and now, now, 
shall they have less power now? No, no! Nigel, Nigel, for 
thy dear sake, thou wouldst give life, and so will Robert. 
Ha! returned, mine Amiot? Had the Lady Isoline re- 
tired? With whom didst leave thy poor afflicted charge? ” 

“ In the care of the Lady Isoline, my liege ; she had not 
yet gone to rest.” 

“ Ha ! and didst speak with her ? 99 

“ Briefly, my lord ; she but detained me to ask if this 
evening’s tale were true.” 

“ Which thou must have answered, methinks, as briefly, 
to have returned so soon; well, she shall hear more to- 
morrow. For thy boon, it is granted; perpetual exile, on 
penalty of instant death, if found again on Scottish shores, 
shall be the traitor’s doom. Nay, kneel not, look not such 
ardent thanks. I fear me, Amiot, had it not been for the 
Lady Agnes, the memories she brought, we had scarce at- 
tained sufficient self-command to have done this, even for 
thy sake, to whom we owe a life ; therefore look not thanks, 
they do but speak reproach, which perchance we merit, but 
which as yet we cannot bear. And now, good night, my 
faithful soldier; we are- not yet ourself, and would be 
alone.” 

Sir Amiot threw himself at the feet of the monarch, 
raised his hand passionately to his lips, and, without utter- 
ing another word, departed. 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

Seven days after this stirring event beheld the large 
army of Robert the Bruce divided according to his plans 
before mentioned. He himself had marched down to the 
shores of Dumfries, whence Douglas had already dispatched 
messengers, informing him that Solway Frith was filled with 
a gallant fleet, eagerly awaiting his arrival, and all impa- 
tience to take advantage of the first fair wind to sail for the 


THE DAYS OF BEUCE. 


445 


Isle of Man. Robert had only waited for this, and the 
unexpected intelligence of Douglas being there before him 
expedited his movements. Randolph, with his fair charge, 
and the greater part of the remaining army, had also com- 
menced their return northward, intending to make Edin- 
burgh their resting, until they should receive other orders 
from Lord Edward Bruce. To Sir Amiot, with a third of 
the army, had been intrusted the safe keeping of the Earl 
of Buchan, whom they were to conduct to Dunbar, and 
imprison in that castle, till a vessel for his transportation 
to the north of Europe could be prepared and manned. This 
done, Sir Amiot had demanded and received permission to 
join Lord Edward Bruce without delay, and those of his 
men who needed not rest were at liberty to accompany him. 
Few indeed there were who chose to turn back from such an 
expedition, for already had Dundee and Rutherglen bowed 
before his arms, and now Stirling — impregnable, all-desired 
Stirling — was the object of his attack, and resolute de- 
termination to obtain. 

It was not long before a strongly-built, gallantly-manned 
vessel lay moored before Dunbar, waiting the prisoner she 
was to bear from his native land. Gloomily the earl had 
acceded to the conditions offered by the Bruce, accepting his 
life at the price of perpetual exile; his was no martyr’s 
spirit, whose glory hath sometimes shed a lustre even over 
crime. His hatred of the Bruce was the only marked feel- 
ing of his existence ; he would not have cared to die, could 
he have given death unto his foe; but that object foiled 
again, and at the very moment of its fulfilment, his dark, 
suspicious spirit robed itself in the belief that even hell it- 
self was against him, and all other efforts were in vain. 
He was no coward to fear to die, but he did fear the hor- 
rible ignominy of a public execution — the triumph such a 
fate would give, not alone his foes, but the country he had 
so basely abandoned, against whom he had inveterately 
fought — and therefore was it, when informed his sentence 
was perpetual exile, and his solemn oath demanded never 
to return to Scotland, he made the vow, unmoved in out- 
ward seeming, but inwardly relieved. The indignation of 
the camp at this wholly unexpected clemency of the king 
was extreme, breaking out into almost open rebellion, re- 
quiring Robert’s royal authority to quell and soothe into 
content. Sir Amiot’s share in this decision was never 
known; an indefinable feeling on the part of the sovereign 
prevented his ever speaking of it, and whatever the king 


446 


THE DAYS OF BKUCE. 


might think — and he had thought on the subject — never 
quitted his own breast. 

The evening was dark and lowering — that leaden ap- 
pearance of sea and sky, and heaviness of atmosphere, which 
seldom fail to sink the heart with a species of despondency 
impossible to be defined, and as impossible to be withstood. 
The vessel lay like a gigantic shadow on the still waters ; her 
sails, some furled around the masts, and others flapping idly 
in the heavy air. A party of armed soldiers stood grouped 
upon a cliff, midway between the castle and the sea, evident- 
ly under orders, though at this moment taking various at- 
titudes of ease ; below them, and concealed from their 
observation, two forms were standing on the beach, looking 
out on the ocean, as if anticipating a boat to be lowered 
from the vessel, for the accommodation of the prisoner, to 
whom the signal of embarkation had been already given. 
They were the Knight of the Branch and the Earl of Buch- 
an, both evidently under the dominion of some strong 
subject of interest. 

“ And who art thou that darest press upon me thus ? ” 
fiercely interrogated the earl, turning full upon his compan- 
ion, whose features were still concealed by the half-mask 
and long drooping feather of a military cap. “ Is it not 
enough that thine arm foiled me in my purpose, saved my 
hated foe, and made me what I am? that thou art the one 
selected to keep watch upon me, poisoning my few moments 
of tranquillity with thy hated presence, forever reminding 
me that I essayed a deed of murder, and it failed ? Away ! 
and leave to others the charge of my person, I will not 
answer thee,” 

“ Earl of Buchan,” replied the knight, in a tone which 
spoke only respect and deep sadness, “ I took not this charge 
upon me to taunt thee with memories better forgotten; I 
accepted it, as my heart dictated, to spare thee the scorn, 
contumely, harshness, which from other than myself had 
been thy portion on thy journey, in thy prison, aye, till Scot- 
tish shores had faded from thy view ; nay, thy very life had 
been endangered, and ’twas for this I took this charge upon 
me — for this his highness offered it.” 

“ Oh, the life of a Comyn must be of marvellous worth 
to a petted follower of the Bruce,” answered the earl, his 
harsh voice unsoftened by the calm sadness of the reply. 
“ Methinks thou hast a marvellously eloquent gift of ora- 
tory; yet that my life, my comfort were in thy thoughts 
when this honorable office was tendered thee by that spoiled 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


447 


minion of fortune they call a king, I pray your mercy for 
its disbelief.” 

“ Perchance, my lord, the fact that thy life was granted 
at my entreaty may in part disperse a disbelief but too 
natural: for the rest ” 

“ Ha ! my life granted at thy request ; and what, in the 
fiend’s name, is my life to thee ? ” interrupted the earl, 
somewhat less fiercely ; “ yet, if it be so, I thank thee. Ex- 
ile is preferable to death on a scaffold, aye, and better still, 
than compelled to call that hated Carrick king.” 

“ Perchance, then, my lord, thou wilt bear with my pres- 
ence the remaining interval we must pass together; pardon 
that which may have hitherto seemed intrusion, and believe 
that which I have asserted relating to thy comfort is truth, 
strange as it may seem. If I have failed in aught that 
could have softened the harshness of imprisonment, I would 
pray you pardon it, that we may part in peace.” 

The earl looked at him with an astonishment which had 
the effect of almost softening the swarthy ruggedness of his 
features. 

“ Thou art marvellously well-spoken, young man ; by 
mine honor, I should doubt those soft-sounding speeches, 
were we not to part so soon that I can guess nothing of thy 
drift. In Heaven’s name, who and what art thou? why 
didst thou press upon me thus but now a subject that ever 
drives me mad ? ” 

“ Hay, ’tis on that I must still speak, on that I must still 
brave thy wrath,” answered the knight, boldly, yet still re- 
spectfully. “ Earl of Buchan, I know that the tale thou 
tellest of thy son is false, I know that of him thou art no 
murderer; and I would know, aye, on my knee I would be- 
seech thee, tell me, wherefore hast thou forged this ground- 
less falsehood — wherefore, oh, wherefore thus poison the 
minds of his countrymen, that if, in his own proper person, 
he should appear again among them, naught but mistrust, 
dislike, misprision will await him? My lord, my lord, 
wherefore was the need of cruelty like this ? ” 

“ Wherefore — art thou so dull-witted as not to know ? 
Wherefore create scorn, misprision, mistrust amid his coun- 
trymen? — that he should never join them. Thinkest thou 
I, a Comyn, can look with composure on my own son join- 
ing hand and glove with my foes? Ho, by every fiend in 
hell ! — but why speak thus ? I have no son,” and that proud, 
dark, evil-passioned man turned hurriedly from Sir Amiot, 
every feature almost convulsed. 


448 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


“ Then, then thou dost acknowledge the tale is false ; 
Alan Comyn is not thus perjured!” exclaimed Sir Amiot 
springing after him, and grasping the earl’s mantle as if to 
detain him. “ Oh, in mercy retract the foul assertion ; leave 
with me some sign, some sealed and written sign, that will 
prove its falsity — tell to Scotland it is not Isabella’s son 
that thus hath fallen; my lord, my lord, do this, and she, 
the wife that thou hast wronged, hast injured, even she will 
bless thee, and I ” 

“ Peace, fool ; thinkest thou that I am mad, so fallen, 
that wilfully I will fall yet lower? retract a tale of years, 
and what retract? I have no son, save him that bears my 
name, my honor; that will be foes with my foes, friends 
with my friends, and such is he who bears the name of Alan 
Comyn, who is the friend of Edward. Detract — say that is 
not which is, and that which is is not; that she, whose 
rebellious spirit first created these evils, made me yet more 
the thing I am, may bless me. Pshaw! think of some bet- 
ter incentive, or thou pleadest in vain.” 

“Alas! there is none; if thine own heart refuseth jus- 
tice to thine own child, what can a stranger plead ? ” replied 
Sir Amiot, mournfully. 

“Justice to mine own! Was the boy taught to do his 
father justice? was he not taught to hate, scorn, contemn 
me, to abhor, even to raise his prayers to Heaven against 
my course of acting ? ” 

“ Ho, believe me, no ! ” replied the young knight, raising 
his clasped hands, and speaking in a tone of truthful fervor, 
impossible to be mistaken. “ Oh, believe thy son was taught 
to love, to reverence thee as his father, even while he im- 
bibed principles of patriotism contrary to thine own. Con- 
demn thee ! oh, how little knowest thou Isabella of Buchan ; 
never, never did one word derogatory to the respect due to 
thee, as the husband of her youth, the father of her children, 
mingle in the instructions lavished upon them. Earl of 
Buchan, thy son would have reverenced thee, aye, loved thee, 
hadst thou not with a rude hand so torn affection’s links 
asunder they never might be joined.” 

“ And who art thou that darest tell me this ? ” answered 
the earl, darkly and terribly agitated. “ I tell thee I have 
no son; the boy is dead — dead through my fiendish cruelty, 
though not by mine order. I would have given my right 
hand, aye, more, I would have forsworn my hatred to the 
Bruce, drawn back from my vow to compass his death, had 
this not chanced, had the boy lived; but he is dead — dead. 


THE DAYS OF BKUCE. 


449 


His blood is upon my head, though not upon my hand ; and 
what matters, then, my future fate ? I have no son, save 
him whom men term Alan Comyn, minion of England’s 
Edward; and what, then, should I retract? Ho, no, the boy 
is dead — dead through me ; and shall I proclaim this by the 
avowal that I am his murderer? Hever, by the blue vault 
above us, never ! ” 

“ W ouldst thou the boy lived now, Earl of Buchan ? didst 
thou know the boy lived, wouldst thou retract this tale, and 
more, retract the foul slander on Isabella’s name, which 
severed those links that bound the son unto his father, and 
crushed his young spirit far more than those chains and 
dungeons in which ’tis said he died — wouldst thou do this, 
my lord? ’Tis no idle parley; give back thy son to life, 
retract the slander on his mother’s name; for if he died 
through thee, ’twas that which slew him : do this, and Alan 
lives ! ” 

“ Ha ! canst recall the dead to life — tell me the boy lives 
— that of this black deed Buchan is guiltless — tell me he 
lives? If thou canst, I will believe what thou wilt; that 
Duncan of Fife told me false; that his sister, my wife, is 
pure and true as I did believe her, despite my hate, until 
he spoke those words that added fuel to my wrath, and 
heaped ten thousand injuries on her ill-fated head. I love 
her not, I cannot love her ; but an thou canst prove my boy 
lives, I will believe her guiltless, proclaim that I have foully 
wronged her ; prove that of my son I am no murderer. Ha ! 
God in heaven, what is this — who art thou? speak! Do 
my very eyes turn traitors, and tell me that which is not ? ” 

“ They tell thee truth ; believe them, oh, believe them,” 
answered Sir Amiot, who was kneeling before the earl, his 
features exposed to the light of day, and his long, glossy 
hair falling back on either side from a face so faultless in 
its proportions, so beautiful in its expression, that it im- 
printed itself on the heart of that dark, harsh man as some- 
thing scarce of earth, something sent from heaven. His 
eyes fixed themselves upon the kneeling form, so full of 
grace, of simple dignity, on the face upturned to his, in such 
glowing truthful beauty — fixed till the eyelids quivered 
either beneath the intensity of the gaze, or from some emo- 
tion never felt before; and as he laid both hands on the 
shoulders of the young man he was aware that his whole 
frame so trembled he must have fallen without such support. 
And this was Comyn of Buchan, the cold, harsh, merciless, 
bloodthirsty Comyn — the cruel, injurious husband, the 


450 


THE DAYS OF BEUCE. 


neglectful father, the traitor to his country, the would-be 
assassin of his king? Was this the man, bowed to the very 
dust, his whole being changed, every dark thought for the 
moment crushed beneath the mighty power of one emotion 
— that which is the breath of the Eternal, the symbol of 
“ that likeness in which made He man,” found alike in the 
blessed and the accursed, the angelic and the reprobate, 
breathing of that divine origin which the veriest sinner can- 
not utterly cast aside; it will be heard, it will find vent, 
coming like a ministering angel to the darkest, hardest 
heart, and whispering of better things, aye, even of hope 
’mid sin; for if that love hath voice, hath being in the 
guilty sons of earth, what must be its power, its might, its 
durance in Him who hath breathed it in his children, and 
called himself their Father ? 

“ Kneel not, kneel not. God in heaven ! why am I thus 
— what is it that hath come upon me ? I who have dreamed 
but of hate, and blood, and murder. I cannot love, yet 
what is this ? Boy, boy, do not kneel ; ’tis no fitting posture 
for such as thee, and to one hardened, blackened as Buchan. 
Up, up, I cannot bear it.” 

“ Father, I will kneel till thou hast blessed me; till thou 
hast recalled that horrible curse thundered against him who 
stood between thee and thy vengeance; till thou hast par- 
doned that which seemed rebellion ’gainst thy power, but 
which, oh, I could not avert, for Scotland and my mother 
had yet stronger claims than thee. Father, I will not rise 
till thou hast blessed, till thou hast pardoned.” 

“ Blessed — boy, boy, oh, do not mock me — blessed, and 
by him that would have murdered thee, who hath poisoned 
thy fair name, and laid such heavy misery upon thy youth ; 
pardoned, and ’tis I have wronged thee unto death ! ” 

“ Yet art thou still my father — still I am thy son : oh, 
’tis no mockery, father, thou knowest not thy children ; oh ! 
that it might have been, thou wouldst have found no failing 
in their love, and ’twas a mother taught it — aye, to respect, 
to cherish, e’en though duty threw us on such diverse paths. 
My father, thy curse hangs like a cloud upon my drooping 
spirit, thy blessing will give me strength for further 
trial.” 

“ Boy, boy, I cannot bless ; I know no prayer, no word 
meet for that dreadful Judge I never thought of until now. 
I will learn prayers to bless thee, and then — oh God, my son, 
my son ! ” Could it be that voice was choked — that bad 
man’s arms were round that youthful form, in strong con- 








THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


451 


vulsive pressure — that thick and scorching tears fell, one by 
one, from eyes that knew not tears before? ’Twas even so, 
slowly, almost convulsively, the earl roused himself to gaze 
again upon his son. “ And thy mother taught thee thus, 
gave thee such principles, instilled such feelings, when I 
gave only cause for hate, alike from her and thee? Tell her 
I crave her pardon, proclaim to the whole world I have 
foully wronged her. Oh, that I could force the black lie 
back into the slanderer’s throat at the sword’s point.” 

“ Leave that unto her son. Hark ! ” he hastily resumed 
his mask, “ not yet may I proclaim my name, my vow is yet 
to be accomplished: they come to part us. Oh, my father, 
think upon thy son; we shall yet meet again.” 

The earl shook his head mournfully. 

“My son, that will never be; but trust to me, by the 
heaven above us, I swear I yet will do thee justice! there 
seems a black veil withdrawn from my heart and eyes. I do 
not yet know myself ; but it will not pass — no, no, that face 
will come between me and returning darkness. I know not 
how thou wert saved, but ’tis enough, I am no murderer of 
my child.” 

What more might have passed between them was un- 
known; they had unconsciously passed this harrowing in- 
terview in a fissure, or open cavern, whose projecting cliffs 
concealed them from all observation from the sea, and pre- 
vented their perceiving the expected boat had been lowered, 
and now lay some fifty yards from them, waiting for the 
prisoner; the wind was rising, and promised too fair for 
further delay. Little did the soldiers who were to conduct 
the earl to the ship imagine the emotions at work in the 
hearts alike of their officer and his charge. Calmly, to all 
appearance, they walked side by side to the beach; they 
stood one minute in silence, gazing on each other, and the 
stout frame of Buchan was seen to quiver, as bent by some 
mighty struggle, his swarthy cheek turned ghastly pale, he 
made one step forward, half extended his hand, drew it 
back, as conscious that every eye was upon them, and thus 
they parted — the earl to hurry into the boat, crouch down 
on one of the seats and bury his brow in his mantle, till not 
a feature could be discerned; Sir Amiot to linger on the 
beach till the boat reached the vessel, and slowly her sails 
were seen to expand, and heavily, as if reluctantly she faded 
from his view. The varied emotions swelling in his bosom, 
the tumultuous thoughts occasioned by that interview, the 
words longing for vent, but doomed to rest unsaid, must be 


452 


THE DAYS OF BKUCE. 


left to the imaginations of our readers : we are no more at 
liberty to lift the veil from them, than remove the mystery 
which Sir Amiot’s vow still kept closely round him. He 
was still the nameless solitary unto others; and to us he 
must still remain so, till his own hand removes the mask, 
his own lips proclaim his name. 

It was not till this excitement had in part subsided, not 
till the military confusion and joyous spirits around Stir- 
ling, presenting other engrossing subjects of reflection, had 
somewhat turned the current of his thoughts, and engaged 
him enthusiastically in all Lord Edward’s daring projects, 
that he had at length leisure first to marvel, and then to 
grow uneasy at Malcolm’s protracted absence. Despite the 
new subject of interest to his lord, occasioned by Buchan’s 
attempted crime and consequent detention, the page had set 
off on his expedition the ensuing morning, as had been re- 
solved between him and his master. One month extended 
over two, and not even the interest of the siege could pre- 
vent Sir Amiot’s rapidly increasing anxiety. At length, 
nearly ten weeks after they had first parted, without either 
announcement or any outward semblance of long absence, 
Malcolm stood before him, with just the same quiet mien of 
respect and arch expression of feature as if no interruption 
whatever had taken place in his daily service to his master. 
Not so unconcerned Sir Amiot; springing to his feet, the 
plan of the castle, which he had been intently consulting, 
dashed down in the violence of the movement, he caught 
hold of the boy’s hand, wildly exclaiming, “ Returned at 
length, and successful! oh, tell me, where hast thou been — 
what done? hast discovered any trace? Quick, Malcolm, 
quick ! ” 

“ Will one word satisfy thee, my lord? found, found! ” 

“ God, I thank thee! ” was the passionate rejoinder, and 
Sir Amiot threw himself back on his seat, agitated almost 
beyond control. “ But where, oh, where ? Is she but found 
to mock me with the vain dream of liberty, of life, alike to 
her and me ? found, but to be lost again, till this poor coun- 
try may pay her ransom ? ” 

“ She is where thou shalt rescue her, my lord.” 

“Ha! where, in St. Andrew’s name?” Sir Amiot 
sprung up in ecstasy. 

“ Even in this goodly fortress, this coveted, impregnable 
Stirling.” 

“ Here, here ! oh, say it again. How can it be ? when — 
whence — art sure ? ” 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


453 


“ My lord, give me but breathing-time, and thou shalt 
learn all this strange tale, fast as my lips can speak it.” 

Sir Amiot with an effort brought down his excited nerves 
lo some degree of composure, and listened with intense in- 
terest to Malcolm’s brief yet important tale. Although be- 
lieving it utterly impossible his master could have seen the 
prisoner, in whose weal his whole being seemed involved, 
without recognizing her, the page yet directed his first 
course toward the Convent of Mount Carmel. Much cau- 
tion and readiness did it require for the perfect completion 
of his delicate mission, for the late attack on the hamlet had 
rendered the sisters yet more guarded in their communica- 
tions. Our space will not permit us to follow the ready- 
witted boy in all the intricate windings of his divers plans, 
suffice it that he had been perfectly successful. At the out- 
set he had ascertained that a Scottish prisoner of distinc- 
tion was under wardance of the Abbess of Our Lady of 
Mount Carmel, and, at the imminent risk of his limbs, and 
imprisonment if discovered, he contrived to conceal himself 
in the garden of the nunnery, and see her, too distinctly for 
even the shadow of a doubt as to her identity to remain. 
Assured of this, he hovered about the neighborhood, having 
heard some rumors as to her removal ; rumors, after a delay 
of some weeks, confirmed. The rest, to one like himself, 
was easy; he followed her guards, whose course, to his utter 
astonishment, was northward. Sometimes assuming dis- 
guise, he mingled with them, and learned that the distract- 
ed state of England, preventing all security for such an im- 
portant prisoner, and almost incapacitating Edward from 
thinking of anything but his own personal cares and griefs, 
had caused him hurriedly to accede to the request of the Ab- 
bess of Mount Carmel, in behalf of her prisoner, that if the 
late assault had determined his highness to change her pres- 
ent abode, she might be permitted a residence in one of the 
English garrisoned castles of Scotland; and the Earl of 
Derby, then marching to throw increased forces into Stir- 
ling, unconscious at the commencement of his march of that 
fortress’s beleaguered state, was commissioned to transport 
her thither, with all due respect. This was important in- 
telligence for the faithful Malcolm, and inspired him with 
yet increase of patience to follow the earl on his tedious 
march, and never lose sight of his movements, often de- 
tained as they were by the devious and hidden paths they 
were compelled to pursue. The wild glens and passes of the 
Cheviot Hills brought them undiscovered across the country 


454 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


to the desolate part of the coast of Ayrshire. There, in de- 
tached parties, they took possession of some fishing-boats, 
and sailed up unsuspectedly to the very head of the lakes 
running up between Argyleshire and Dumbartonshire ; there 
cautiously effecting a landing, the earl united his forces in 
the mountains and woods, and thus proceeded to the north 
of Stirling, so completely unsuspected, as to make his way 
that very day within the fortress, by a concealed postern 
leading to the underworks, their entrance covered by the 
desperate sallies of the besieged. 

Sir Amiot listened to this narrative with the deepest at- 
tention, and then, with military precision, questioned his 
page again and again. Was he certain the prisoner was 
with them to the end ? Had he seen her enter the castle, or 
might she have been left in any convent on their way? 
Malcolm could not answer this decidedly. He had been 
compelled to part from them some days before to elude sus- 
picion, nay, from the period of their landing in Dumbarton- 
shire he had only watched their proceedings at a distance; 
but he was sure that she was with them still, and that Stir- 
ling Castle was now the fortress in which the prisoner on 
whom so much of Sir Amiot’s happiness depended was im- 
mured. 

Sir Amiot scarcely doubted this himself; but he had 
experienced too much of suspense, of that deep agony of 
hope roused but to be crushed, to rest secure even on this 
intelligence, much as there was in it to encourage and in- 
spire. He sat up half the night in earnest commune with 
his page, and at last his resolution was formed. 

The next morning, somewhat to the astonishment of 
Lord Edward, his favorite officer, the Knight of the Branch, 
requested a week’s furlough from the camp, coupled, how- 
ever, with an assurance that within that time he should in 
all probability return, and bring with him information ma- 
terially connected with the business of the siege. Sir Ed- 
ward Bruce had too much confidence and love for Sir Amiot 
either to refuse or question; there was a spirit of daring 
about him so much akin to the living fire of his own breast, 
that it was enough for the knight to hint anything of a 
secret expedition, for Sir Edward to feel assured it must be 
something in which his whole spirit would sympathize and 
long to join. 

Two days after Sir Amiot had departed, a minstrel made 
his appearance in the Scottish camp. He was clad in the 
green jerkin, leggins, and hose, with a short cloak of some- 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


455 


what rich material for his fraternity, and secured at his 
throat by an emerald of value. Long curls of auburn hair 
shaded his face, which was almost concealed by a slouching 
cap and dark drooping feathers; his harp was slung across 
his neck ; but there was something in his figure and martial 
step that would perhaps have seemed incompatible with his 
more peaceful employment, had not the exquisite taste and 
skill with which he touched his instrument confirmed the 
tale his dress proclaimed. 

In the age of chivalry, the person of the minstrel was 
sacred as a herald, perchance yet more so, for where the lat- 
ter might meet with contempt and rough treatment, the 
minstrel was ever received with honor and delight : his path 
was never stopped. He could pass free, and was welcomed 
with joy by opposing armies; both parties trying who could 
evince the more eagerness to listen to his lays, or show 
honor to his person. He could be sure of free passage 
through a besieging army, make his way unquestioned into 
the very stronghold of a beleaguered fortress; and there- 
fore it was but in the very spirit of the time that the min- 
strel we have referred to refused the pressing invitation of 
the Scottish leaders to abide with them, and declared he 
was under an engagement to visit Stirling at a given time, 
which circumstances had already delayed ; but being so hon- 
ored by Lord Edward Bruce’s great desire for his perform- 
ance, he promised that, if the leaders would permit his de- 
parture without delay the succeeding morning, he would 
devote that evening to their service. The proposal was re- 
ceived with the greatest glee, and a joyous party met that 
evening to revel in the minstrel’s lays. There was some- 
thing in his joyous tone, in the buoyancy of youth and 
poetry which appeared to characterize him, that at once fas- 
cinated all hearts ; while the spirit of his martial songs, the 
liquid richness of his deep-toned voice, held every ear en- 
chained. A score of voices pledged him in the sparkling 
wine; a score of voices shouted loudly in his praise; and 
Lord Edward himself, albeit unused to love the minstrel’s 
art, vowed he was one well fitted for a warrior’s guest, and 
detaching a golden brooch from his mantle, bade him wear 
it for his sake. 

“For, by my father’s soul, thou art the very king of 
minstrels ! ” he exclaimed ; “ and it is a crying sin and 
shame thou shouldst prefer the applause of those English 
knaves and that carpet knight Sir Philip de Mowbray to our 
own. Thy tongue favors the Scotch as fluently as the Eng- 


456 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


lish. Whence comest thou? Edward of England would 
line thy pouch with gold pieces, I trow. An thou lovest the 
English, why not seek him ? ” 

“ Truly, my good lord, and lose my head for my pains. 
Know you not all Edward’s minions are fated on the in- 
stant ? Piers Gaveston’s fate hath no charms for me.” 

“ Thou art a ready-witted fellow, by my faith ; hie thee 
to King Robert then, and thou shalt enjoy his favor, with- 
out any such drawback as envy to thy fame.” 

“ Will your lordship grant me the opportunity of gaim 
ing that favor ? — beware what you pledge, I may call on you 
to redeem it.” 

“ Call on me and welcome ; thy voice gains on my heart. 
I have heard but one like thee, and he — poor fellow, may 
his fate not be thine! I knew not his worth till he was 
gone,” and Edward Bruce, the stern, harsh, iron-hearted 
warrior, passed his hand across his darkening brow as he 
thought of Nigel; the memory of his brother hushed his 
soul to silence. 

The minstrel swept his hand across his harp, till a low, 
wailing strain woke from it, swelling louder and gladder, 
then he expressed in song so exactly the transcript of the 
Bruce’s feelings, that he started in astonishment. A silence 
of several minutes followed the lay, whose simple homage to 
the noble dead found its echo in every heart, and then burst 
forth a shout of applause, ringing through the canvas walls 
till the very soldiers marvelled wherefore. Edward Bruce 
sprung up and grasped the minstrel’s hand. “ Sing that to 
Robert,” he cried, “ and thy fortune’s made ! ” Modestly, 
though smilingly, the minstrel received the delighted ap- 
plause; and thus, with many a rude present thrust upon 
him, he left the general’s tent. 

The next morning saw him present himself before the 
gates of Stirling Castle, and he was instantly admitted. It 
was of no consequence that he had come from and perhaps 
tarried in the enemy’s camp ; he was a minstrel, and one too 
of no common seeming. Soldiers and officers hastened to 
greet him, and even the seneschal of the castle, Sir Philip de 
Mowbray, himself deigned to give him frank and joyous 
welcome. 

“ Truly, sir minstrel, thou hast come when most needed; 
we wanted some such pleasant guest to enliven our tedious 
beleaguerment. We have guests, too, fair and gentle 
guests, whom thy lays may chance to charm into forget- 
fulness that they are some while prisoners. We look to see 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


457 


thee grace our evening meal: see that thou disappoint 
us not.” 

The minstrel bowed lowly in reply, and the knight passed 
on ; perchance the hours waned but slowly, despite the cour- 
teous attention he received on all sides. But at length he 
stood within the banquet hall of Stirling Castle, at length 
he glanced round the courtly crowd of knights and dames 
who occupied the dais, and there was a wild throbbing of 
sudden joy within his soul. They bade him sing, but slowly 
he obeyed, for he feared the quivering of his voice. There 
were many gazing upon him , but he saw but one, who sate 
somewhat back from the noble circle, her sable robes con- 
trasting sadly with the gay dresses of those around her, 
though comporting well with that dignified and noble form, 
the sculptured beauty of those pale and pensive features. 
Beside her was a light and lovely girl of some seventeen 
summers beautiful enough to have chained the eye and heart 
of any stranger, awake as was the minstrel to such impres- 
sions; but even her he saw not, save when he marked the 
sweet touching smile with which some remark she had made 
was met by her companion, the looks of love, of kindness 
lavished on her, and then he saw her, for he envied her posi- 
tion, envied the smiles which she received. The minstrel 
sang, and there was a pathos in his voice, an inspiration in 
his lays, and none there dreamed the wherefore. The jest 
was hushed, the laugh was stilled, for feelings were stirred 
within by the deep magic of the stranger’s song; and the 
whole frame of the minstrel quivered as he felt the large, 
dark, melancholy eyes of that noble prisoner fixed upon him, 
for meet them he dared not, and his head bent down upon 
his harp till his long hair veiled every feature from her 
gaze; and thus the evening waned. 

Two days within the given time Sir Amiot returned, and 
for some days the siege continued with little change to 
either party; but at the end of a fortnight, the Scotch had 
obtained possession of the posterns commanding the under- 
works, and thus completely stopped the passage of provisions 
from the town, which had hitherto afforded the besieged 
more than sufficient supplies. The blockade, which had 
gradually closed around the castle, now became complete, 
closing up every avenue, and reducing the garrison to all the 
horrors of threatened famine. This was, in truth, an im- 
portant advantage gained, and Edward Bruce already tri- 
umphed in perspective. He pressed the siege with renewed 
vigor and most intemperate valor, seconded by all his troops, 


458 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


whose joy at this unexpected success carried them even be- 
yond their usual bravery. Sir Amiot appeared in a state 
of excitement scarcely attributable to the affairs of the 
siege, repeatedly alluding to the immense number of the 
garrison and prisoners within the castle, and declaring that 
the famine among them would be fearful. 

“ All the better,” said Lord Edward ; “ we shall starve 
them out the sooner ; they must surrender at discretion.” 

“ But ere they do this, my lord, what will they not en- 
dure? and the prisoners — the noble Scottish prisoners — how 
know we but in their desperation they may cut them off to 
lessen the number ? such things have been.” 

“ Aye, but not under the sway of such a luxurious, ef- 
feminate king as the second Edward. Trust me, knights 
and nobles take their stamp more from their monarch than 
they are aware of. Did Edward the Hammer rule in Eng- 
land, why his spirit would urge this Sir Philip to do even 
this — cut off his prisoners, his own men, did they dare mur- 
mur at privation, rather than surrender; but days are 
changed now, and I fear no such catastrophe.” 

“ But famine, exhaustion for English soldiery, is of 
little moment; but for our captive countrymen, and some 
still less capable of enduring it, think of them ! ” 

“ And so I do ; but what, in Heaven’s name, ails thee, 
Amiot? thou hast grown most marvellously tender-hearted. 
By my father’s soul, were the thing possible, I could swear 
thy lady-love were prisoner in yon castle, an thou art thus 
anxious for her safety ! ” 

“ Thou hast said it!” passionately burst from Sir 
Amiot. “ Oh, Sir Edward, she, whom for five long weary 
years I have sought in vain — whose life, whose liberty, 
whose weal, are infinitely dearer than my own — she lieth in 
thrall under my very eye, separated from me but by be- 
leaguered walls! Oh, is it marvel, now that I have thus 
neared that goal, toward which I have so long and pain- 
fully struggled, striving against disappointment, failure 
upon failure, which none have known or dreamed of — 
marvel that my doubting soul should now tremble lest that 
which it has thus sought should fade away beneath my very 
grasp? She is there, impossible as it seems! Oh, Sir Ed- 
ward, give me, oh, give me but the opportunity to obtain 
her liberation ere it be too late ! ” 

“ And so I will, believe me ; only be calm, and listen to 
reason,” he replied, too much astonished to inquire how Sir 
Amiot knew that which he affirmed. “ Ho'jv wouldst thou 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


459 


have me do this — take the castle by storm? Thou art 
too good a soldier not to see that is impossible, even for 
Edward Bruce’s erratic brain. The fortress is absolutely 
impregnable, and what would be the use of so squandering 
Scottish blood? No, trust me, this blockade will bring 
those caged birds to terms fast enough, too fast for the evil 
thou fearest to accrue. Edward is too harassed by his af- 
fairs in England to care much for Scotland, and this Sir 
Philip knows ; so he is not likely to be so heroic as to sacri- 
fice prisoners, garrison, and himself by a prolongation of 
the blockade. Let things rest as they are for the present, 
and if at the end of fourteen days they have come to no 
terms, I pledge thee mine honor to resort to more active 
measures.” 

Sir Amiot was forced to be content, for, despite his fears 
as to the effect of this blockade on the comforts of the 
prisoners, his military experience acknowledged the justice 
of Sir Edward’s representations, and he waited, with what 
patience he could, the issue. 

Fortunately for his self-command, he had not to wait 
long; Edward Bruce’s idea that self-sacrifice was not even 
in Sir Philip’s thought, was speedily realized. A herald, 
with a white flag and properly escorted, appeared from the 
castle, demanding speech with the Lord Edward Bruce and 
his officers, on the part of Sir Philip de Mowbray, just seven 
days after the conversation we have recorded. A slight 
smile of triumph circled Bruce’s lip, seeming a mischievous 
glance directed toward Sir Amiot, who was standing at his 
right hand, as the English knight was conducted to his tent, 
and speedily made known his mission. Sir Philip de Mow- 
bray, acknowledging the great valor and marvellous suc- 
cesses of the Scotch under all who bore the redoubted name 
of Bruce, pledged himself solemnly and sacredly as his op- 
ponents could demand, to surrender the castle of Stirling, 
the ammunition, arms, and treasure thereto appertaining, 
without any fraud or diminution, on the following Mid- 
summer day (it was now January), if by that time it were 
not relieved. If Lord Edward Bruce would agree to these 
terms. Sir Philip swore, by the honor of a knight, to adhere 
alike to the letter and the spirit of his pledge. 

The pause of consideration was brief among the Scottish 
leaders. The rash, yet daring spirit of their general was 
upon them all, and if they did think on the immense power 
of the sovereign of England, the great advantage the inter- 
vening period gave him in the preparation of an army, it 
30 


460 


THE HAYS OF BItUCE. 


was but of the increase of glory they should reap; many 
also believed the castle was as good as won, imagining Ed- 
ward held it at too small a price to subject himself either 
to exertion or expense for its recovery. Unanimously, then, 
Sir Philip’s terms were received and accepted; but when the 
hum of many tongues ceased, Sir Amiot stepped suddenly 
forward, and entreated a moment’s attention. 

“ Tell Sir Philip de Mowbray,” he said, addressing the 
herald, “ that his offered terms are accepted by these right 
noble and worthy representatives of Scotland and her king; 
but that there is one condition annexed, an important condi- 
tion, on the acceptance or refusal of which our acceptance 
of these terms must depend. We demand the surrender, not 
alone of the fortress, ammunition, arms, and treasure, but 
that there shall be no removal of the Scottish prisoners 
therein kept in thrall ; that all those now there, of whatever 
sex, age, or rank, shall there remain to wait the issue, and 
be given up with the castle, without ransom, charge, or con- 
dition whatever, as the lawful gain of our arms: let Sir 
Philip pledge himself to this, and we will accede unto his 
terms. My lords, have I spoken well ? ” 

A shout of assent passed through the tent, among which 
Edward Bruce’s voice waxed loudest. 

“ Aye, by my father’s soul, thou hast, and I owe thee 
good thanks for that which ’scaped my memory ! ” he frank- 
ly exclaimed, striking his gauntleted hand on the table. 
“ Bepeat this to Sir Philip, sir herald, and tell him, an he 
accede to this, we offer him personal liberty, and free pas- 
sage for himself, four knights, and ten men-at-arms, as he 
shall choose, to the court of Edward, to report the condi- 
tions we demand and the terms he has proposed. We bid 
him put some mettle in his poor, weak shadow of a sover- 
eign, and urge him to send relief, for we desire not to gain 
the castle at such easy rate : we defy him to the field.” The 
herald pledged himself to the correct delivery of this mes- 
sage, and with a low obeisance withdrew. The anxiety of 
the generals was great for Sir Philip’s answer, none more so 
than Sir Amiot and Lord Edward, and it came at length. 
Sir Philip, the herald said, acknowledged he had determined 
to transport his prisoners to some place of greater security, 
as he scarcely felt himself authorized to deprive the treas- 
ures of his master of so large a sum as the rank of his pris- 
oners might demand for their ransom; but, on due and 
weighty consideration, he had resolved on accepting the 
offered condition. If not relieved by the 24th of June, 1314, 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


461 


he pledged himself to deliver up with the castle, not alone 
the arms and treasures pledged before, but every prisoner, of 
whatever sex, age, or rank, the fortress now, this day, 14th 
of January, 1314, held in thrall. 

All was now joy and triumph in the camp ; the blockade 
was removed, and Sir Philip speedily on his way to London, 
escorted to the borders with all honor by many young 
knights, burning with impatience for the issue of his jour- 
ney. That there was any chance of defeat, any dream of 
failure, never entered into the thoughts of either soldiers or 
officers, and perhaps the first idea that the engagement en- 
tered into was not an overwise one, originated in the grave 
aspect of King Robert’s countenance, when, on his trium- 
phant return from the Isle of Man, and instant visit to the 
camp, the fate of Stirling was reported to him. There was 
no timidity, no doubt, no fears as to the result; such could 
have no resting in the soul of Bruce, but it was scarce ap- 
proval. He spoke, however, no such sentiment to his sol- 
diers, but when alone with his brother and other leaders, ex- 
postulated earnestly and eloquently on the extreme rashness 
of the engagement. The labor of years, the toil and strug- 
gles of a whole nation, the weal of Scotland, nay, her hardly- 
won liberty, the prosperity of her sons, all were risked by 
one rash word. He bade them remember that England, Ire- 
land, Wales, part of France, even of Scotland, would spring 
up at Edward’s clarion call, and to them what had Robert 
to oppose? 

“ Your highness thinks, then, Edward will fight? By 
my father’s soul, his kingly sire should rise from his grave 
to give me thanks for snapping the flowery garlands around 
his son, and giving him incentive to fight,” was Sir Ed- 
ward’s reply, finding some difficulty in restraining his im- 
patience before his royal brother. 

“ It is a great chance whether he do not,” rejoined an- 
other leader. “ I think he will deem Stirling Castle not 
worth the trouble or fatigue of buckling on his armor.” 

“ So perchance Edward’s self may think,” replied the 
king, “ but not so will Edward’s subjects. My friends, I 
know the mettle of the English; that hath not departed 
with their warlike sovereign. A dozen English barons I 
could name would arm themselves and vassals, and march 
northward, with or without their king’s consent, and Ed- 
ward, effeminate and weak as he is by nature, would not sub- 
mit to this. No, their spirit will act upon his, and he will 
wake from his lethargy to a full sense of the neglect and 


462 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


indifference of past years, endeavoring to atone for them 
by one sweeping blow, calling his whole dominions to his 
aid.” 

“ And let him do so ! ” impetuously exclaimed Edward 
Bruce. “ Robert, I know that in this thou speakest as the 
king and not the warrior; thou fearest for the weal of thy 
country and thy devoted subjects, as a king; perchance, ’tis 
right thou shouldst; but I tell thee no more ill will accrue 
from this than that thou wilt become possessed of treasure, 
prisoners, and glory. It will bring this continued struggle 
to a crisis; it will bring Scotland against England as she 
should be, in firm and bold array; and what signifies dis- 
parity of number? I tell thee, Robert, we shall win, and 
thou wilt yet thank me for entering into such engagement. 
Let Edward bring every man he has, and we will fight them, 
were they even more ! ” 

King Robert looked on the kindling features of his 
brother, on his noble form, dilating with the passionate 
ardor of his words, and on the countenance of every knight 
and leader, then bearing in vivid light and shade the echo of 
such sentiments, and he could no longer control, by the 
more prudent maxims of the sovereign, the bold spirit of his 
race and his knighthood. 

“ Since it is so, brother,” he exclaimed, “ manfully and 
fearlessly will we abide the battle, and call upon all who love 
us, and value the freedom of their country, to oppose this 
English king! Aye, though backed with the flower of his 
kingdom, though aided by knights from every State in 
Europe, for the rescue of this castle of Stirling, yet will we 
abide him, and bring him, if not force ’gainst force, the 
willing hands and dauntless spirits of the free.” 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

u Nay, surely we have given thee time enow, lady mine, 
thou canst not in conscience ask more,” the King of Scot- 
land said to the Lady Isoline, some five months after the 
conclusion of our last chapter. They were together in an 
apartment of the Convent of St. Ninian, where Isoline had 
chosen to take up her abode, her impatient spirit not permit- 
ting her to wait the issue of a battle for which the whole of 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


463 


Scotland had risen, sheathed in mail, even at the moderate 
distance of Edinburgh Castle. The Convent of St. Ninian 
was situated rather less than two miles from Stirling, 
round which fortress for many a rood the Scottish army 
had gradually assembled, to the amount of nearly thirty 
thousand men; with them, however, as with the immense 
preparations and gorgeous armament of England, we have 
at this moment nothing to do, the fortunes of a young lady 
engrossing us rather more than the fortunes of a kingdom. 

There was an unusual shadow on Isoline’s beautiful face, 
which seemed to express an inward struggle, as unusual as 
its index on her brow. She was sitting on a low embroid- 
ered cushion, resting her elbow on her knee, her cheek 
upon her hand, her luxuriant hair somewhat less carefully 
arranged than usual, falling as drapery on her shoulders; 
the king, seated on a couch near her, had laid his hand 
caressingly on her shoulder, and seemed half-soothing, half- 
commanding. All their converse it is unnecessary to re- 
peat; we will take up the thread which is woven with the 
future events of our tale. 

“ I looked to thee to give me courage to resist this un- 
looked-for tyranny of my father, and thou givest him thy 
support,” resumed Isoline, without heeding the king’s pre- 
vious remark, and lifting up her face to his, gleaming sadly 
pale amid her raven curls. “ Why must I marry ? of what 
great importance is this poor hand, that it may not rest 
quietly in my own possession as I desire ? Would to Heaven 
I were a poor maiden of my native mountains, free to wed 
or remain single, as my heart might prompt.” 

“ Truly, I think a mountain maid’s estate would scarcely 
suit thee, Isoline,” replied the king, smiling ; “ thou lovest 
state and power as the best of us.” 

“ ’Tis because I love power that I love not to resign it. 
Oh, my liege, why do me such wrong as to compel marriage ? 
why may I not remain unwed ? ” 

“ Isoline,” replied the king, seriously, “ I pledged myself 
to thy father to reiterate his command, because it is mine 
own. Thou knowest, to behold thee the wife of Douglas 
has been for seven years my dearest wish; I can consent to 
its delay no longer. I will not have his happiness thus 
trifled with, the best years of his manhood wasted in the 
pursuit of devotion to a wilful girl, who is scarce worthy of 
him. Aye, look proud as thou wilt, fair niece, thy con- 
tinued perverseness compels me to be thus harsh. What is 
there thou canst bring forward against the husband of thy 


464 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


sovereign’s choice, thy father’s wishes? Come, sum up the 
charge against him, that we may judge if in truth its foun- 
dation have some reason.” 

Isoline was silent. 

“ Doth he possess one single evil quality which can cre- 
ate unhappiness for a wife, abhorrence against himself? 
Speak with thy wonted candor, Isoline. Knowest thou 
aught against him, one evil quality which thou canst bring 
forward in his dispraise ? ” 

“ No,” was the reply, in clear frank tones. 

“ Is there aught in his person or his countenance which 
your woman’s fancy doth so dispraise as to affect your hap- 
piness ? ” 

Another “ No.” 

“ Has his public or private conduct evinced any other 
spirit than that of a true knight and patriot, faithful to 
Scotland as to me ? ” 

Again she answered “ No.” 

“ Has his pursuit of your fastidious ladyship been con- 
ducted other than most nobly and most honorably ? ” 

“ No.” ^ 

“ Notwithstanding all this, canst thou say then thou 
dost positively dislike him ? ” 

“ My liege, no.” 

“ Then what, in St. Andrew’s name, can either thou or I 
desire more ? ” exclaimed King Robert, with some natural 
impatience. “ Isoline, there can be but one cause for this 
positive rejection of a noble chevalier, against whom thou 
canst bring no other cause than that, forsooth, thou feelest 
for him no romantic love. Thou hast given that little 
wilful heart unto some other; deny it not, for wdierefore 
shouldst thou ? An he be of birth and bearing, noble and 
faithful, and open as James of Douglas, I will forswear 
even my dearest wishes, and make thee his. Now, where- 
fore weep, foolish girl ? — dost thou so doubt thine uncle — do 
these words surprise thee? Speak out, give me the secrets 
of thy heart; an thou lovest one worthy of thee, and who 
loves thee so well as Douglas, I will urge no more against 
thy wishes — I would not give my Douglas, nor would he ac- 
cept, a divided or preoccupied heart ; but an thy refusal pro- 
ceed from nothing more than girlish wilfulness and caprice, 
and love of universal dominion, my own hand shall con- 
duct thee to the altar, and compel thee to become my faith- 
ful Douglas’s bride.” 

The young lady was silent for many minutes after this 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


465 


speech ; she had bent down her head so that the workings of 
her expressive features were completely concealed by her 
veiling hair; there was a wild tumult within she could 
scarce define, and certainly not control. Avow she refused 
Douglas because she loved another, and that other had given 
no cause for love, breathed not one word — save what she 
deemed chivalric gallantry — to say it was returned, nay, 
more, had given her cause again and yet again to believe his 
affections were engaged; from whose lips she had even dis- 
tinguished words of impassioned love, addressed to one in- 
deed incapable of returning it, but still its hearer, thus mys- 
tifying his conduct more and more — avow this, lower herself 
thus, w T hen every day brought its chance of proving how 
vainly, fruitlessly, disgracefully to her own proud spirit, 
she had loved — Isoline, do this, the haughty, independent 
Isoline — no, no, better her heart should break, her hand be 
pledged unto another, than expose herself to this. Yet 
there was a struggle, a bitter struggle, for despite her pride, 
she loved ; and wilfully to throw aside the offer of her king, 
reject her own happiness, was it well — was it wise? Yet 
whom did she love — would he reach the standard of perfec- 
tion King Robert named — who could say his birth was 
noble? she could not speak his name. 

“ My liege,” at length she said, composedly, though in a 
somewhat lowered voice, “ I were indeed an ingrate to refuse 
acquiescence to your grace’s will, thus kindly and generous- 
ly offered; but a woman’s heart, my liege, bears not the 
scrutiny of man. Bear with me a few weeks longer, give 
me at least the chance of other noble maidens, the choice 
of husbands. There are many noble and gallant youths in 
your grace’s camp, desirous as Douglas for this hand, all 
worthless as it is; why should I do them the injustice of 
refusing them for one I love not better, though I grant him 
noblest, most deserving? Let some extraordinary deed of 
valor in the forthcoming strife win my hand and give me a 
husband; all then have equal chance hardly, for James of 
Douglas, an he loves me as he saith, will bear down all op- 
position to obtain me, and I do therefore accede to your 
grace’s wishes, even while I seem to waive them.” 

“’Tis scarcely justice, Isoline; he loves thee above all 
the others.” 

“ How know I that, my liege ? let him prove it, and with- 
out a question I will be his.” 

“ But chance, fortune, the most untoward fates, may 
give thee to one far beneath thy rank.” 


466 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


“Not so, my liege; thou thyself shall mark the bound- 
aries of birth and station — ’tis a trial of love, not ambition. 
I speak but to those who pretend to value above all price my 
maiden hand, and let those only essay for it. Surely thou 
wilt not refuse me this, my royal uncle. Thou hast offered 
more to thy poor Isoline ; she asks but this one more trial of 
Douglas’s love, and if truth he gain it, I pledge thee mine 
honor I will fulfil your grace’s dearest wish — I will be the 
bride of Douglas.” 

“ Then be it so, fair lady. Woman-like thou wouldst 
mark the extent of thy power, know thine influence on men’s 
hearts, ere thou vowest thyself to one. Well, well, I will not 
thwart thee. Thou canst demand no proof of valor Douglas 
will not win; and perchance he would glory more in thus 
obtaining thee, in thus proving his devotion, than in win- 
ning thee in peace. It shall be as thou wilt. But when pro- 
claim thy purpose — when give him this bright hope ? ” 

“ When the vast armies of which we hear so much ap- 
pear, and we may judge what deeds of valor for our country- 
men their ranks present. The evening of the day that 
marks them within sight shall hear this resolve. The day 
that sees the banner of England dashed down from Stirling 
Castle, the flag of Scotland there upraised, the English 
armies scattered like dissolving snow back to their native 
mountains, and Scotland, wholly, firmly, gloriously free — 
that day shall see me betrothed to Douglas, an he win me, 
or to him that doth.” 

“ I may not quarrel with thee, Isoline, for thy spirit is 
but too akin to mine,” replied the king, gazing admiringly 
on the noble form of his niece, as she raised herself from 
her cushion, and stood loftily erect, every feature kindling 
with the enthusiasm of her soul. “ Truly thou art a child 
of Scotland, inheriting thy mother’s blood, and deserveth 
that which thou demandest. I accept thy pledge. My vic- 
tory shall hail thee Lady Douglas, sweet one, and make thee 
dearer still ; ” he threw his arm round her, kissed her brow, 
and left her. Isoline remained standing. 

“Lady Douglas,” she repeated, folding her hands upon 
her throbbing heart ; “ did I think so, dream so, better to 
have died. Have I indeed fooled away my happiness, cast 
it on a stake, certain ere ’tis tried? Yet, no, this will solve 
the dark and painful mystery. If he love me — he, the un- 
known, the nameless, the sworn — if he be free to love, will 
he not give me this proof — will he let Douglas win me — per- 
mit aught superior in valor to conquer him? Never! I 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


467 


have watched him: he is brave, dauntless, valorous as the 
young lion chafed into wrath ; gentle, prudent. Oh, no, no ; 
gallant, irresistible as is the Lord of Douglas, if Amiot love 
me, be free to love, he will win me still, and if not, if my 
heart break, what matters? But it shall not; no, he shall 
not dream my weakness, he shall not dare to think I was 
mad enough to love ; ” and she pressed her hands convul- 
sively together, compressed that beautiful lip, under a pas- 
sion of feeling which would have laid weaker natures pros- 
trate in the dust. What passed in that woman’s heart from 
the hour of that resolution until the moment of bringing 
it to proof we may not pretend to define ; Isoline’s character 
is now known to our readers, and her thoughts and feelings 
must be imagined accordingly. 

On leaving Isoline, the king turned to the apartment of 
Agnes, who had also taken up her abode in the Convent of 
St. Ninian: the change from perfect unconsciousness to 
approaching sanity was becoming more and more apparent 
with every passing month ; but, though equally certain, the 
waning of that fragile form was almost unperceived. She 
was standing looking forth from the open casement on the 
broad champaign it overlooked. He approached gently, but 
she heard his step, and turned toward him with a smile that 
thrilled , for its source seemed deeper than the lip. 

“ I look for England, gentle Hobert,” she said, yielding 
to his paternal embrace, and laying both hands on his, “ but 
she comes not yet. Alas! that rude feet and ruder spirits 
should stain yon beautiful plain ! ” 

“ Yet wouldst thou not Scotland should be free?” in- 
quired the king, startled by her words into the expectation 
of a collected reply. “ Dearest, were Stirling ours, not a 
rood of earth, much less a walled and guarded castle, can 
our former tyrants claim.” 

“Free! King of Scotland, thou shalt be free, aye, thou 
and thy country! Said he not it would be, and did ever his 
words fail ? But do not let us talk of these things ; my poor 
brain reels again, and, oh, it is such pain to wake when 
these wild fancies gain dominion. I will not speak thus, I 
will not — no, Hobert, gentle Hobert; bear with me, it will 
pass — I shall soon be well.” 

She laid her head on his bosom, and he felt her tremble 
in his arms. He did not speak, but clasped her yet closer, 
yet more caressingly to his bosom, and the threatened suffer- 
ing passed. 

“ Is it in truth memory that maketh me thus ? ” she 


i 


468 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


asked, sorrowfully. “ There is some change upon me ; life 
is not all present. Sometimes my soul looks back, and it is 
either one dark blank, or peopled with such a dream of hor- 
ror, I could cry aloud from very agony ! ” 

“ Has that dream form, mine Agnes ? ” inquired the 
king, cautiously yet anxiously. 

“ Sometimes I think it hath. I seem pressed and hur- 
ried to and from by a dark, shapeless crowd, struggling to 
escape some scene of horror; my eyes fix themselves on one 
I have seen but in air, one that was never upon earth ; and, 
oh, merciful Heaven, how do I see him ! ” she shuddered be- 
neath the word. “ But how can it be ? it cannot be what 
men term memory, for that, they say, is of things which 
have been, and he, my beautiful, he never came to earth to 
suffer this; and then I see him not in air so often, though 
I feel him nearer yet, and there comes too a voice, bidding 
me prepare to join him. He will call me soon, oh, soon; 
he but tries my love till then. When Scotland is free, and 
thou art the king, he said, oh, he will call me to his heart, 
and we shall fly up together above all sound, all sight of 
earth: thou wilt not need him then.” 

The king could not reply, but his countenance betrayed 
the emotion her words produced. 

“ Thou wilt miss me, king, as men call thee. Oh, there 
are times when I feel as if I did not pay thee the respect thy 
due, the homage paid by all else, and it seemeth as if the full 
meaning of king came to me, and I could kneel and rever- 
ence as others; but when I look upon thee, words my lips 
have framed depart, and Agnes only feels she loves thee, 
Bobert.” 

“ And only feel this, sweet one,” fervently answered the 
king ; “ leave to others the homage of the knee. Enough, 
oh, ’tis a blessed enough, afflicted as thou art, to feel thou, 
whom he so loved, so cherished, canst still feel love for me.” 

Some time longer the king lingered with her; there was 
something about her words and aspect now that linked her 
yet closer to his manly heart, spoke yet more forcibly unto 
his love, and despite the dim prophesyings of her clouded 
spirit, he never left her without feeling hope strong within 
him that she would wake from those twilights of her mind, 
and bless him with intellectual beauty still. 

Hearer and nearer yet rolled over the whole south of 
Scotland the immense armament collected by Edward of 
England, or rather by the great vassals of his drown, for the 
relief of Stirling, or the redeeming of Sir Philip de Mow- 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


469 


bray’s pledge. Even as King Robert’s penetration had de- 
clared, the remonstrances of his nobles had at length roused 
Edward to a sense of his long neglect of Scotland, to a sud- 
den resolve to awake the might of his kingdom to regain 
her. The shout of war rang through the land; the last 
remnant of the first Edward’s extensive conquests hovered 
on the chance of a single fight; its recovery opened anew a 
path of victory to England ; its downfall placed the seal on 
Scottish freedom, pronounced her independent, glorious in 
the scale of kingdoms. The visit of Mowbray to court, the 
intelligence he brought, the sudden excitement of his no- 
bles, aroused Edward from his dream of luxurious effemi- 
nacy to all the spirit and bravery of his father’s son. He 
was not naturally a coward, and the exertions he now made 
somewhat lessened the scornful contempt with which he 
had been regarded by his barons. England, Wales, Ireland, 
even France, issued their warriors, the very flower of chiv- 
alry. No less than ninety-three great vassals of the crown 
brought out their whole feudal force of cavalry, consisting 
of forty thousand, every horse and every rider sheathed in 
mail; twenty-seven thousand infantry were levied in Eng- 
land and Wales alone, and when collected at Berwick, 
within ten days of the appointed time, the whole army 
amounted to the almost incredible number of one hundred 
thousand. A spirit of excitement pervaded every rank. 
Robert the Bruce had proved himself no unworthy opponent 
for the bravest knights in Christendom. 

The war was deprived of that brutal ferocity which had 
characterized the actions of the first Edward. Men marched 
northward, simply under the chivalric feeling that a castle 
was to be rescued — the question of English or Scottish supe- 
riority to be decided at a blow. Truly an incentive to gal- 
lant cavaliers, and one so powerful, that the youthful Earl 
of Gloucester forgot this, his first battle, was against the 
brother-in-arms of his noble, still-lamented father — against 
the very man a father’s lips had taught him to venerate and 
love. 

Gilbert de Clare, that Earl of Gloucester whose conduct 
as the friend of Robert and the subject of Edward must 
be familiar to our readers, had been spared the agony of 
thus marching direct against his cherished friend. He had 
been cut off in the prime of life, satisfied that his son re- 
tained in his noble-minded mother a guardian and a guide, 
who would well supply his place. And she could not bear to 
damp the excited spirit of her gallant boy, anticipating with 


470 


THE DAYS OF BKUCE. 


unchecked ardor his first battle, by recalling against whom 
he was to raise his maiden sword; but yet she could not 
part with him, for her spirit was not at rest. Perhaps it was 
superstition, perhaps folly; but the shade of her departed 
husband seemed ever hovering around her, with a sad and 
gloomy brow, and she would have given all she most valued 
on earth, that her boy’s first battle was against other than 
his father’s friend; perhaps, too, there was another cause. 
Though the daughter of one king of England, the sister of 
another, her upright spirit ever told her the Bruce’s cause 
was just , and her spirit, endowed with pious prescience, felt 
he would succeed; defeat would attend the arms of Eng- 
land, impossible as it seemed. The most truthful reports 
did not give Hobert more than fifty thousand men, which, as 
they neared Scotland, dwindled into forty, then to thirty, 
till many a gallant baron was heard to grieve at the great 
disparity, declaring the victory they made sure of gaining 
would scarce be glorious, scarce worth any exertion to ob- 
tain. But still foreboding was the heart of the Princess 
Joan, and urged by those mysterious impulses, which who 
of us has not in some time or other of his life experienced, 
she resolved on accompanying her son, on lingering with 
him to the end; and the young earl rejoiced, for he doted 
on her, and longed to throw his first laurels at her feet. 
His was not the age of prescience save for rosy-colored 
joy. 

To this immense armament of England what had King 
Hobert to oppose? Naught but willing hands and hearts, so 
nerved with freedom, that they had no dream of aught save 
victory. For five years victory, glorious victory, had ever 
crowned the banners of their patriot king, and would she 
desert him now? No, it was the crisis of their country’s 
fate; England had risen in arms but to feel to her heart’s 
core the power of the free. Day after day beheld fresh re- 
inforcements ; men full of fiery valor, impatient to behold 
the foe, to strike the last link of slavery to the earth, to 
behold their country free; but yet, despite this patriot zeal, 
but thirty thousand warriors mustered round King Hobert ; 
tried they were in truth, but what were they compared to 
Edward’s hundred thousand? 

There was neither doubt nor tremor on King Robert’s 
heart ; but he was too good a general not to feel, and keenly, 
all the disadvantages of such very unequal numbers, and not 
only inequality of number; compared to Edward’s forty 
thousand cavalry he had literally none, the fugitive warfare 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


471 


he had been compelled to adopt preventing all approach to 
the feudal tenure of other kingdoms. 

The bow was no instrument to the Scotch, and the un- 
erring English archer formed the greater part of Edward’s 
infantry. These disadvantages would have been all-suffi- 
cient to have crushed even the most sanguine hopes, but it 
was not so with Robert. Difficulty with him did but seem 
to make him conscious of the unfailing resources of his own 
mighty mind, and he prepared with perfect coolness to over- 
come by stratagem what was impossible with force; how he 
succeeded the sequel will show. 

But one advantage Robert possessed over and above his 
foes. He could choose his ground, and that choice evinced 
his consummate military skill. Partly open, partly shaded 
by single or grouping trees, the Hew Park of Stirling of- 
fered a favorable space for the arrangement of his lines. 
A bog, called Hew Miln Bog, stretched between the Scottish 
battle-ground and the advance of the English. The brook 
from which this celebrated engagement took its name ran 
foaming and rushing between precipitous crags to the east- 
ward, presenting an impregnable defence to the forces 
stationed near. Opposite to this was an extensive field of 
brushwood, offering, in appearance , an admirable ground 
for the operations of the cavalry, but in reality so excavated 
with rows of deep pits; as to give the earth the semblance of 
an immense honeycomb, and threatening complete destruc- 
tion to the English cavalry. Westward rose an eminence 
commanding a complete bird’s-eye view of the whole plain, 
and divided into several craggy summits, one of which, 
rising just above the Convent of St. Hinian, and divided 
thence by a thick wood, looked also over Stirling. The 
convent itself and church adjoining lay directly in the path 
to the castle, and there were perhaps some among the sisters 
not a little timorous of their vicinity to a spot likely to be 
fiercely contested; by the one party, to throw succors into 
Stirling, and by the other to prevent it. The crag before 
mentioned commanded this path likewise, and on its giddy 
summit the beautiful form of Isoline Campbell was more 
than once perceived watching the progress of the English 
army, with an excitement as great as any of the youthful 
knights in her uncle’s camp. 

The evening of the 22d of June found a gallant assem- 
blage of knights and nobles in King Robert’s pavilion. 
Lord James of Douglas and Sir Robert Keith, Lord Marshal 
of Scotland, had been dispatched that morning, by King 


472 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


Robert’s orders, to survey the rapidly approaching English 
army; they had just returned, full of animation and excite- 
ment, which was speedily shared by their companions. The 
Lady Isoline and some of her attendant maidens were also 
present, and perhaps that circumstance increased the ardor 
of Lord James’s words and sparkling vivacity of mien. 

“ How, say you, look these gallant Englishmen ? ” in- 
quired the lady, perceiving the conference between the king 
and his officers was over. “ Fain would I list the tale from 
thy lips, my Lord of Douglas, for truly rumor doth speak 
such marvels my poor brain can hardly credit them.” 

“ And for once rumor speaketh but the truth, believe me, 
lady,” he replied, eagerly. “ Scotland hath never seen a 
sight like this, even in her fairy dreams; beautiful and ter- 
rible to behold — appalling, while it fascinates.” 

“ Appalling to J ames of Douglas ? ” interposed Isoline, 
with a smile. 

“ Hay, I speak figuratively, lady. Imagine a glorious 
array of moving warriors for a space of five square miles, 
the sun reflected from moving steel, dazzling the eye with 
one blaze of gold and silver on man and horse, so closely 
wedged they but seem one mass of gorgeous metal, whose 
ranks no glance can penetrate, no eye can reckon. Troop 
after troop roll on like the waves of a mighty ocean dyed in 
the sun’s rays with every brilliant tiht, on like a whelming 
deluge; over hill, and wood, and plain, lances flash against 
the summer sky, a very wood of steel ; bills and bows from 
thousands of infantry mingle with the knightlier ranks in 
terrible array, and threaten devastation. Oh, ’twas a good- 
ly, glorious sight! one that stirred the very' blood within 
me, and bade my hand fly to my sword, as scarcely able to 
restrain it in its sheath.” 

“ What ! thou wouldst single-handed have encountered 
such a force, my lord? Truly, that were wise! ” 

“ Lady, to have defined or tempered that moment’s ex- 
citement was wholly vain; the very sight roused me out of 
my quieter self, till verily, I was scarce accountable for any 
mad deed I might have done.” 

“ Methinks, then, it was well for my uncle the king that 
Sir Robert Keith was near thee.” 

“ He ! why the sight stirred his blood even as it did 
mine. Believe me, lady, his soberer age rendered him no 
whit calmer than myself.” 

“ He speaks truth, lady, strange though it seem,” con- 
tinued Sir Robert, smiling. 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


473 


“ And King Edward — saw you the king ? ” asked many 
voices. 

“ We could only give a shrewd guess as to her position,” 
replied Lord Douglas, “ by the phalanx of gorgeously-clad 
knights, with all the magnificent banners of the great crown 
vassals, forming almost a canopy of rainbows ; and chargers 
— ha ! many of them shall become Scotland’s ere long ; and 
the best and noblest shall be trained for thy use, sweet lady, 
an thou wouldst honor Douglas by such charge,” he added, 
in a lower, more impassioned voice. 

“ Standards, ye have not named standards ; are they nu- 
merous and gorgeous, as fitting the rest of this arma- 
ment?” demanded Sir Walter Fitz-Alan ere Isoline gave 
reply. 

“ Aye, by my father’s sword ! such standards as will 
adorn Scotland’s palace walls for many a long year, and 
each one with its knightly guard, till they seemed to rise 
from towers of gold or steel. The great banners of St. 
George, St. Edmund, St. Edward. The standard of every 
noble house of England, and pennons, streamers, pen- 
conelles, of colors glowing as the hues of sunset, displaying 
pearls, and gems, and riches, which seemed emulous to ar- 
rest the sun’s beams ere they rested on coats of mail.” 

“ And each guarded, sayest thou ? ” inquired Isoline, ear- 
nestly. 

“ Aye, and will be on the battle-field. The capture of 
St. Edmund and St. Edward were almost a deadlier blow 
to England than the downfall of her army. Ah, lady, 
wouldst thou but speak the word, wouldst give me but the 
promise of one answering smile, one approving word, one 
hope that knightly valor might gain me the hand for which 
the devotion of a whole life were but poor return, how gladly 
would I penetrate the thickest ranks, the most impenetrable 
phalanx of England’s noblest sons, to lay that banner at thy 
feet.” 

“ Wouldst thou indeed do this, my Lord of Douglas?” 
suddenly interposed King Kobert, who had neared his 
niece’s seat. “ Methinks, then, my gentle Isoline, this were 
the fitting moment for the proclamation of thy will, and 
nerve our gallant knights with double valor for the onset. 
What sayest thou, sweet one? Have I thy consent to 
speak ? ” 

A deep flush mantled the cheek of Isoline for a single in- 
stant, and then faded into deadly paleness, but she bent her 
head in sign of affirmative, and the king continued, in his 


474 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


clear, manly voice, turning the attention of every one within 
the tent even from the one engrossing subject. 

“ Y'oung lords and knights of Scotland,” he said, “ all ye 
whose birth is noble, whose ancestry is loyal, whose knightly 
valor hath proved ye worthy of such brave descent, and who 
bear on your shields naught that can tarnish nobility or 
present a barrier to a union with a daughter of the Bruce — 
in a word, ye amongst those who have any pretensions to 
the hand of the Lady Isoline Campbell, by that true, faith- 
ful, and chivalric love which should ever mark the devotion 
of a chevalier of high degree to a noble maiden, in all things 
worthy of that love, stand forth, and list the resolve which, 
as a true and patriotic daughter of Scotland, she, through 
us, her liege and loving sire, proclaims.” 

Amazed, yet bearing on their frank, open countenances 
such unequivocal marks of delight, of hope, that none could 
doubt their sentiments, no less than seven young noblemen, 
of the first families of Scotland, sprung forward from dif- 
ferent sides of the tent, forming a close semicircle before 
the king and the lady, at whose feet Douglas was already 
kneeling, looking up in her face with such an expression of 
respectful, yet devoted attachment, that that heart must in- 
deed have been preoccupied to resist it; but that heart had 
sunk back upon itself as impelled by a weight of lead. 
Were these all , all who, by manner, nay, by word, had 
evinced pretensions to her hand? her eye for a moment 
glanced almost wildly round. Was he whom it sought with- 
in that tent, and yet made no step forward even at such a 
call? What did it proclaim? Every knight and noble had 
gathered closely round the principal group, eager and won- 
dering to list what followed; the words of the king passed 
like light from mouth to mouth. A martial form darkened 
the opening of the tent, from which the heat of the night 
had caused the curtains to be drawn aside. It was Sir 
Amiot; she saw him bend forward in earnest inquiry, fol- 
lowed by a quick, almost convulsive start — a glance met 
hers, but that was all; she saw him fold his arms in his 
cloak, and remaining shrouded in the folds of the curtain, 
his eyes, she felt fixed on her, but making no forward move- 
ment to take his station midst those hoping few. She for- 
got at that moment of deep agony one clause in her uncle’s 
words, or perhaps had never dreamed that aught, in one 
so faithful to his country and his king, could tarnish his 
ancestral shield, and place a barrier between him and a 
Bruce. Perhaps it was well for her no such feeling came to 


THE HAYS OF BRUCE. 


475 


prevent her awakened pride ; naught but pride, the haughty, 
icy pride of a soul such as hers could have sustained her at 
such a moment, strengthened her for the trial she had 
brought upon herself. Almost crushed beneath the intoler- 
able agony of that moment — the belief she had been weak 
enough to love, and that love was unreturned — she arose, 
collected, a flush upon her cheek, in truth — but what was 
that but maiden modesty? — her beautiful eye flashed, her 
rich voice faltered not one shadow in its deep, full tones. 

“ My gracious liege,” she said, “ the love, the devotion, 
these noble lords have in all sincerity, at divers times, 
breathed into mine ear, demand my grateful thanks, and 
will, I trust, banish all unmaidenly freedom from my 
words; I have to each and all returned the same reply — 
the impossibility of love like theirs — the love of power and 
freedom, which now mine own, I wished not to surrender. 
My lords, I pretend not to deny the first of these is still my 
own; the second I am willing to resign, an love be so great 
for me, that not alone will its bearer be content to receive 
me as I am, with no pretence of deeper feeling than sincere 
regard and willing word to seek the happiness of him alone 
who wins me; that he will adventure, in the great battle 
about to join, a deed of valor worthy of his own high merits 
and the lady whom he seeks. My lords, there are fearful 
odds against us. England cometh with her mighty bands 
as if to crush this mountain land, and by her whelming 
weight, ere a single blow be struck ; yet do I — a child of the 
Campbell and the Bruce, a daughter of Scotland — avow my 
firm belief that not only will victory be ours, hut glory 
more transcendent than hath yet beamed over Scotland — 
glory, from the king to the peasant, the noble to the serf. 
Believing this, then, I fear not, even in a battle on which 
the freedom of this land depends, to hazard my fate to a 
feat of arms, more befitting, perchance, the tourney’s sport 
than the terrible strife for life or death. The knight who 
lays St. Edmund’s banner at my feet shall have my hand, 
and all of heart ’tis mine to give, my true and faithful 
service for the time to come.” 

A burst of irrepressible gladness broke from one and all 
of those most nearly interested, echoed by a heartfelt cheer 
of applause from those around. James of Douglas paused 
but to press the hand of the lady passionately to his lips, 
and then sprung up with a loud, exulting cry of joy, not 
even her presence could restrain. 

“ Mine, mine ! ” he cried. “ When hath Douglas failed ? 

31 


476 


THE DAYS OF BBUCE. 


and shall he now — now, with such a prize before him? 
Lady, sweet lady, I will lay St. Edmund’s banner at thy feet, 
or bid farewell to life ! ” 

“ And the prayers of thy sovereign go with thee, my 
Douglas,” whispered the king, as he grasped the young war- 
rior’s hand, drawing him from the group, while, one by one, 
the youthful candidates for that glorious prize bent the knee 
before the lady, and pressed the kiss of acknowledgment 
and gratitude upon her hand; and came not he among 
them? He had departed from the tent; and did she need 
him? what cared she for the love of an unknown, when the 
devotedness of the noblest, the best lay offered at her feet? 
She tarried a brief while longer, returning with graceful 
courtesy, unfailing dignity, the many compliments of those 
around, and then rose to depart, refusing the escort of her 
devoted cavaliers; but with a kindness of tone and manner 
that excited love yet more, bade them farewell till the event- 
ful strife was over, bidding them not for very wilfulness 
tempt life — that but one only might win, but for all she 
would retain regard and friendship, if as another’s wife they 
wished it still. 

The Lady Isoline walked slowly from the pavilion to the 
convent. A guard of honor ever attended her to and fro; 
but this night so irksome was their presence, she longed to 
burst away, and seek solitude and peace. Yet still she lin- 
gered on her brief way, as if seeking the mental pride and 
strength which with every step from the eye of man gave 
way. One moment she paused ere entering the woody al- 
cove which led to the convent-gate; she had dismissed the 
guard, and sent forward her attendants, struggling for com- 
posure ere she met the inquiring gaze of the abbess and the 
sisters. Alas for the continuance of that calm! the figure 
of a knight suddenly stepped from the deep shade and knelt 
before her. 

“ One moment, one little moment, gracious lady ; oh, do 
not refuse it ! ” he exclaimed, the deep, impassioned accents 
of that well-known voice betraying in a single instant how 
utterly fallacious was her dream of pride. “ I will not tell 
thee all I have endured, all the deep agony the words of the 
king have caused. I might not join the noble few whose 
shields, whose ancestral names bore no stain, no shade to 
sully their personal fame, and yet, perchance, when this 
dark veil be removed, for the sake of one valued by the king, 
even this might be forgiven, and thy precious hand not all 
forbidden me. Lady, not one of those who knelt before 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


477 


thee, vowing homage, love, that would bid them rush on 
death to win thee, can give thee a more devoted heart than 
Amiot’s. Look not on me thus upbraidingly, thus doubt- 
ingly; a brief interval, and all, all shall be explained, trust 
me but till then ; till, in my own proper person, my own un- 
shrouded name, I lay the banner of St. Edmund at thy feet, 
or die. Speak, dear lady, but one word, give me but one 
sign to breathe approval, to permit my struggling with this 
gallant band: say but that, an I win St. Edmund’s banner, 
the precious prize shall be mine own, and even Douglas’s 
•self shall quail before me; in the face of England and of 
Scotland, Amiot — the nameless, lonely Amiot — through 
death itself, shall win thee. Speak, speak, in pity; oh! 
might I breathe the love, the mighty love I bear, have borne 
thee, since first that smile of pitying kindness beamed like 
reviving dew upon my scathed and lonely heart, ’twould 
weigh, perchance, against the mystery around me — a few 
brief days will solve it. The impending strife, on which so 
much depends, gives me a name, dissolves this dark and 
hated veil, gives her to freedom, whose hand unmasks my 
brow, fulfils the vow of years. Lady, sweet Lady Isoline, 
trust me but a brief while ; say that I, too, may seek a prize, 
dearer, how much, than life ! ” 

Isoline heard, and her limbs so trembled during this wild 
appeal that she was fain, foolish as it was, to lean against a 
stalwart oak for support. The revulsion of feeling, the sud- 
den upspringing of that drooping heart, casting aside the 
leaden chains which one moment before had bent it down to 
earth, as by a sudden flash of dazzling radiance, dissolving 
them to naught, was more than even her spirit could control. 
Where now was the calm and dignified courtesy with which 
she had answered the impassioned Douglas? Did she now 
promise “ all of heart she had to give ? ” we know not the 
exact import of her words, we only know there was some- 
thing of a struggle with herself, less successful in control- 
ling impulses than usual; that something must have 
breathed from her actions or in the music of her whispered 
tones, certainly more than the maiden meant, that it could 
have emboldened Sir Amiot to an act which Douglas had 
not dared, to pass his arm round that lovely form, which 
yielded to his support, bend down his head, as to impress his 
quivering lips upon that pure and spotless brow, then sud- 
denly pause, with the impassioned exclamation : 

u Ho, not till my name be told — not till in the face of the 
whole world I may claim thee mine! I will not seal our 


478 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


compact thus; not one blush of pain shall stain thy cheek. 
Enough thy voice hath granted my boon — hath spoken 
words to lie on my heart of hearts, too blessed, too precious 
e’en for the winds of heaven to list, lest their faintest echo 
pass from me. If love may win, in the face of Heaven I’ll 
claim thee, sweet one ! oh, trust me to the end.” He caught 
both her hands, pressed them again and again to his lips 
and heart, and vanished. 

“"Trust thee, aye, did an angel of heaven swear that 
thou wert false ! ” burst from Isoline’s lips, in a tone of 
such thrilling, cloudless joyance, she well-nigh started at its 
sound herself, so strangely did it clash with the whelming 
despondency she had lingered on that spot to conquer but a 
few brief moments before. Had flowers sprung up around 
her, or whence came those now laughing in the moonlight ? 
What were those glistening lights on the emerald shrubs, 
the thousand stars in the deep blue heavens? Surely they 
had not been there before, for as she walked from the royal 
tent, the air had felt oppressive, and naught but cloudy 
mists were round her. She looked round one brief minute, 
but Nature’s self, all laughing as she was, seemed tame to 
the welling flood of gladness that had sprung up within her 
own heart, and she darted past with a step so light, it 
skimmed, not touched the turf, impatient still for solitude; 
not to school that spirit of haughtiness and pride, but to 
give its full tide of love and gladness vent. What cared 
she for mystery more ? enough that he had spoken — and she 
trusted, for she loved. 

On nearing the king’s pavilion, which, for the purpose of 
calming his excited spirit, Sir Amiot had made a long cir- 
cuit to avoid, eager voices met his ear, and hasty steps, pro- 
claiming that the monarch’s guests were severally departing 
to their quarters. He was greeted with unusual animation, 
and so many spoke at once, he found some difficulty in com- 
prehending them; at length Edward Bruce’s voice made it- 
self intelligible. 

“Peace, madcaps!” he shouted, authoritatively; “let 
this chevalier solitaire know what more has chanced; some- 
what, methinks, yet more interesting to him than all of you 
together. What, Sir Amiot, has kept thee aloof from the 
pavilion ? The king is not best pleased ; but I have not for- 
gotten thee. Didst hear the Lady Isoline’s proposal ? ’Tis 
a brave girl! ’tis as good as accepting James of Douglas at 
once; he will win her, without a rival. Didst hear all 
this?” 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


479 


Sir Amiot bowed in the affirmative. 

“ Then what, in St. Andrew’s name, didst thou leave us 
for? Afterward, some bold youngster besought the king’s 
permission to achieve a feat of equal daring, for the privi- 
lege of planting the Scottish banner on Stirling Tower, 
hurling down its rival, and giving liberty to all the prison- 
ers there enthralled. Think of that, Sir Amiot. Thou 
shalt accomplish thy vow to the very letter; give thy fair 
incognita freedom with thine own good sword, and dash 
that hated mask from thy face, as a good knight should. 
By Heaven, I was only sorry the proposal did not come first 
from me; but I supported it, believe me, with all my elo- 
quence, thinking but of thee, and there thou standest, mo- 
tionless as an inanimate piece of ice, without even saying 
gramercy for the thought. What ails thee, man ? ” 

“ Pardon me, my lord, but I — I hardly understand thee,” 
replied the knight, gasping for breath, conscious only that 
some dreadful thunder-cloud was hovering over, to burst 
and crush the bright hopes of the moment before, and in 
that consciousness absolutely losing all comprehension of 
Lord Edward’s words. “ I — I have been — nay, my lord, 
pardon me, my brain is giddy ; I pray you speak again.” 

“ Why, truly, that is not thine own voice, Amiot,” re- 
sumed the Bruce, softened at once into kindness, and hurry- 
ing to the side of the knight, he drew his arm kindly within 
his own. “ What has chanced ? Cheer up, dear friend ; my 
news will give thee new life. Thou knowest these English 
barons never march to a battle, such as this will be, without 
the sacred standards of St. Edmund and St. Edward in ad- 
dition to the grand national banner of St. George. They 
imagine that no defeat can attend them while beneath these 
banners, and that taken they never can be. By God’s help, 
we will tell them a different tale. Isoline has chosen St. 
Edmund’s for her own especial prize, and has resolved 
whoever brings the banner of St. Edward to King Rob- 
ert shall place the flag of Scotland on the ramparts of 
Stirling, give life and liberty to every Scottish prisoner, 
and conduct them with all honor and chivalry to their de- 
liverer’s feet. Gain thou this banner, and this privilege is 
thine — the vow of years fulfilled.” 

u And where, in what position is placed St. Edward’s 
banner ? ” demanded Sir Amiot, in a tone scarcely intelli- 
gible, “ near St. Edmund’s ? may they not both be gained ? ” 

“ Both ! — art stark mad ! what canst thou mean ? High 
together! why where is thy wonted generalship? No, no, 


480 


THE DAYS OF BKUCE. 


these magnificent English barons are somewhat better gen- 
erals than that; they place one in the left flank, and one 
in the right, that the tug of war may be equal — St. George’s 
national standard thus doubly guarded. God’s mercy, 
Amiot, what doth ail thee? thou art white and ghastly as 
yonder moonbeam on the water, and thy voice sounds hol- 
low, as if some evil spirit had possession of thee.” 

“ I will go exorcise him, good my lord ; give you good 
night,” wildly exclaimed the unfortunate knight, breaking 
from Lord Edward’s hold, and darting away in the direction 
of his tent, with a speed, a suddenness, startling his com- 
panions into the conviction his senses were disordered. 

“ Better not follow him, my lords, he will recover him- 
self anon,” interposed Malcolm, who, as usual, was at hand 
whenever his master, either present or absent, most needed 
him, and who did him essential service at that moment, by 
preventing the kindly intent of the Bruce and others to 
follow and relieve him. He, however, tarried not, save to 
see his advice was followed; but the first glance at his 
master convinced him that not even his presence could aid 
him now. 

“ To know thou lovest, and to lose thee thus! ” burst at 
intervals from Sir Amiot’s parched lips, as with fevered 
and irregular strides he paced the tent ; “ to see others win 
thee without the power of striking one blow in proof of 
that deep affection I do bear thee. Merciful Heaven, must 
this be — am I bound to do this ? Is not her freedom gained 
without it — my vow fulfilled? What have I sworn — what, 
Holy Virgin, called on thee to register in heaven? To seek 
her liberty, life, joy, above all things on earth; to sacrifice 
all of self, of selfish happiness for her who so loved me ; to 
let naught interfere with this one grand object of my life, 
at the sword’s point, through fire, through water, through 
every horrible shape of death, to give her freedom, if only 
thus it could be gained ; and do I pause now — permit even a 
thought of others to win a privilege, that were there not 
another yet more precious, I had moved heaven and earth 
to gain? More precious, mother of mercy! is there, should 
there be aught more precious to a son than the life, the 
liberty of a much injured, devoted, glorious mother? Shall 
I see others tamely wfin thee, content that this victory will 
give thee freedom? Shall I not be perjured, dishonored as 
a knight, ingrate, rebellious, lost to all affection, every duty 
as a son? I will not, I cannot, Mother. I will gain thy 
freedom; I will win the power of flinging open thy prison- 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


481 


gates, casting off the chains, which for eight long weary 
years thou hast worn in misery; I will do this, though it 
cost me more than life! Isoline, Isoline, oh God, must I 
lose thee ? ” 

He flung himself on the ground, and writhed in the wild 
agony of that last thought. The cold, measuring judgment 
of the present day can form little idea of the mighty agony, 
the whelming bitterness of that trial ; the power, the weight 
of the chain which the vows of chivalry threw around their 
subjects. The freedom of the Countess of Buchan was cer- 
tain, whoever gained the recompense offered by the chivalric 
king; but her son would have stood perjured and dishon- 
ored in the sight of men, as in his own heart, had he per- 
mitted aught of personal consideration to permit that rec- 
ompense being awarded to other than himself. Malcolm 
knew this well, and therefore he stood silent, full of sympa- 
thy, but proffering no word, for what could he advise ? 

At length Sir Amiot, as though a light had burst upon 
his soul, sprung from the ground in an ecstasy of renewed 
hope. 

“ And why may I not win her still ? ” he exclaimed. 
“ Were the standards on opposite sides of the broad earth, 
or the one in heaven, the other in hell, I will win them both ! 
Mother — Isoline — I will win both — both; ye shall both be 
mine ! ” 

On, on came the mighty armament of England. Early 
on the morning of the 23d, intelligence was brought King 
Robert of their march from Falkirk, and, without a mo- 
ment’s delay, the patriot sovereign drew forth his rejoic- 
ing troops, to form them in the line of battle on which he 
had resolved. The drums rolled to arms; the silver clari- 
ons and deeper trumpets echoed and re-echoed from various 
sides, and under each the gallant soldiery sprung up around 
their respective leaders. Torwood seemed suddenly awake 
with animated life; from every glade, from every nook 
they issued; till they stood in presence of their sovereign 
in three compact and steady lines. Mounted on a small 
but strong-built pony, in complete armor, distinguished 
alike by friend and foe, by a rich coronet of chased gold 
around his helmet, whose visor was up, and his noble and 
eloquent countenance shaded only by long, waving ostrich 
plumes of snowy whiteness, the Bruce returned, with grave 
and graceful dignity, the salutations of the troops, as they 
passed him to their ranks. He rode slowly along the line 
once and again, and then he paused, and a deep, breathless 


482 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


stillness for a brief minute prevailed. It was broken by his 
voice, clear, sonorous, rich, distinguished for many paces 
round. 

“ Men of Scotland,” he said, “ we stand here on the eve 
of a mighty struggle. Slavery or freedom are in the bal- 
ance; misery or joy hinge on the result. I hesitate not to 
avow there are odds, fearful odds against us. England hath 
more than treble our number; but, soldiers, your monarch 
fears not — the fewer men, the greater glory! We shall win, 
we shall give freedom to our country, fling from us her last 
chain, crushed to atoms, into dust; and to do this, what do 
we need? — bold hearts and willing hands, and those who 
have them not, let them now depart. Friends, subjects, 
fellow-soldiers, if there be any among ye whose hearts fail 
them, who waver in their determination to conquer or die 
with Robert Bruce, I give ye liberty, perfect liberty to de- 
part hence. Our hearts are not all cast in the same mould, 
and if there be any excuse for wavering spirits, men of 
Scotland, behold it in the whelming flood that England’s 
power hath gathered to appal us. Be this proclaimed; I 
would not one hand should stay whose heart hath failed.” 

The king paused, and on the instant above a dozen trum- 
pets sounded, followed by the proclamation of the words of 
the Bruce. His eagle eye flashed as it glanced on that 
patriot band, and well was its trust fulfilled. Scarce had 
the echoing trumpets ceased to reverberate, the stentorian 
tones of the heralds hushed, when the wild cry of confidence, 
of love, of fidelity to death, burst from every lip, so loud in 
heartfelt enthusiasm, its echo startled the myriads of Ed- 
ward with its sound. 

“ To the death, to the death, we will abide with thee! — 
thy fate is ours, whatever it may be — victory or death — 
we will share it ! Death hath no terror when thou art by ! 
Victory shall be ours, for ’tis the Bruce that leads; with 
thee we live or die ! ” 

So shouted the warriors of Scotland; the meanest sol- 
dier caught the words, and echoed and re-echoed them with 
such tones of fervor, trust, and loyal love, the Bruce thrilled 
and softened, even at that moment, almost to woman’s 
weakness: rank, order, military discipline, all were for the 
time forgotten. In the centre of his soldiers, the Bruce 
permitted their excited feelings full vent ; they hailed him 
sovereign, friend, and father — besought his blessing, and 
answered it by reiterated blessings on himself. A few min- 
utes, seeming almost hours so intense was the excitement, 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


483 


this lasted, and then, as by magic — calmed, silent, disci- 
plined as before — they fell into their ranks, and waited the 
orders of their king. Three oblong columns, armed with 
long stout lances, in equal front, formed his first line. To 
his brother Edward was intrusted the right wing ; James of 
Douglas and Sir Walter Fitz-Alan, High Steward of Scot- 
land, headed the left; and Randolph, now Earl of Moray, 
the centre. Resting on the precipitous banks of the turbid 
brook of Bannockburn, the approach to the Scottish right 
wing was completely inaccessible. The left, on the con- 
trary, appeared bare and dangerously open, but was in fact 
protected by that excavated honeycomb already described, 
whose destructive powers were further increased by the 
number of calthrops or spikes, destined to lame the English 
cavalry, scattered about. These leaders, Randolph in par- 
ticular, as his central band more completely covered the 
road to Stirling than either flank, were commanded to pre- 
vent all attempt to throw succors within the castle. The 
king reserved to himself the command of the second line, 
which, forming one columnar mass, consisted of the men 
of the Isles, under their chief Angus, from first to last de- 
voted to the Bruce, his own personal followers of Carrick, 
with those of Argyle and Cantire, and a select and gallant 
body of horse, among whom were many of the young aspir- 
ants for the two proffered rewards. Their own eager spirits 
led them to desire posts in the van, but they listened to and 
believed their king’s assurance that he would give them 
better opportunity for the exercise of their valor than did 
they join the wings. To James of Douglas, too, a post in 
this troop had been assigned, Robert disclosing to him his 
plan with regard to their service more fully than the others, 
and acknowledging he feared that, as a general, his attempts 
to reach the banner might be liable to interruption; but 
Douglas would not listen to the suggestion. 

“ I must not listen so to my own interests as to forget 
those of your highness,” he said, with a frank smile ; “ I 
will do my duty as commander, and yet find ample time for 
the feat of a preux chevalier; and let my friends yonder 
rest on the honor of a Douglas. I strive not for St. Ed- 
mund’s banner, till the signal of your highness gives them 
equal fortune with myself.” 

One other charge demanded the Bruce’s attention, and 
then his plan of operations was complete. Every menial 
follower of the camp and baggage, with the wives and chil- 
dren of the soldiery, amounting altogether to some hun- 


484 


THE DAYS OF BKUCE. 


dreds, were dispatched to the eminence we have elsewhere 
named, giving them a view of the engagement, thus remov- 
ing all the confusion of so large and undisciplined a multi- 
tude wholly from the principal actors of the day: a plan 
proving of infinitely more advantage to the Bruce than, at 
the time of its formation, he at all imagined. 

About four hours after noon, of the same day, the 23d, 
the vanguard of the English came in sight; standard and 
pennon, banner and plume, of every shade and gorgeous 
material, gleamed in the sunshine, as moving pavilions, ere 
their bearers could be distinguished. The Bruce, riding 
forward, his lightning glance seeming to rest on every point 
at once, fancied he perceived a large body of men detaching 
themselves from the main body of the English, and ad- 
vancing cautiously through some low, marshy ground in 
the direction of the castle. 

“ Ha ! ” he shouted, in a voice that called the attention 
of his leaders at once. “ Randolph, Randolph, there is a 
rose fallen from thy chaplet! See yon cloud of dust and 
lances; they have passed your ward.” 

“ But gained not the goal,” answered Randolph, the red 
flush of indignation mounting to his cheek ; “ nor shall 
they, my liege — though the rose be fallen, its thorn is there. 
Follow me, men!” and with about fourscore spearmen he 
dashed onward, halted in the spot the English must pass, 
and, in that compact circle of three-lined pointed spears — 
one rank kneeling, the next stooping, the last upright — 
which Wallace had introduced, awaited the charge of eight 
hundred horse. 

“ In Heaven’s name, my liege, give me permission to go 
to his assistance ! ” burst at once from Sir Amiot and Doug- 
las’s lips, at the same moment urging their horses full 
speed to the side of the king. “ He is lost ; an he have no 
relief, he must perish. Yonder are more than ten to one. 
In St. Andrew’s name, give the word, and let us forward to 
his rescue.” 

“ It may not be,” replied the Bruce, calmly ; “ Randolph 
must pay the penalty of his own folly ; I cannot change the 
order of battle for him.” But Douglas and Amiot could 
not be so turned from their generous purpose; they con- 
tinued to plead, until a softening of the king’s countenance 
induced them to act as if the words of consent had been ex- 
torted from him, and followed by about a hundred men, the 
knights, side by side, rushed forward to his rescue. Already 
Clifford’s men had charged full speed Randolph’s devoted 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


485 


band, but ere their friends had approached within spear’s 
length of the scene of conflict, the English cavalry, unable 
to penetrate the sharp phalanx presented to them, had fallen 
back in such complete disorder, as to convince them Ran- 
dolph needed no rescue; on every side they rolled back — 
to use the expression of that Scott, to whom Scotland owes 
so much — like a repelled tide, amid whose retreating waves 
Randolph’s men stood like a stubborn rock. Horses, speared 
and terrified, fell, crushing many a gallant knight beneath 
them, and effectually barring the onward charge of their 
companions; while, without the slightest change in rank, 
position, or steadiness, Randolph’s patriot band remained. 
With a simultaneous movement, Sir Amiot and Douglas 
checked their chargers. “ Gallantly done, Randolph ! ” they 
exclaimed, the noble spirit of chivalry predominating even 
over its rivalry. “ He hath won, gloriously won. Back ! he 
needs not us ; to stay would but tarnish his glory,” and they 
returned to their ranks, followed within half an hour by 
the Earl of Moray and his followers, without the loss of a 
single man. 

“ Nobly retrieved, my Randolph ! ” exclaimed the king, 
spurring forward his palfrey to meet his nephew. “ The 
rose but drooped, it hath lifted up its head again, blushing 
with new honors ; we hail it as a bright omen of to-morrow.” 
The warrior bent' his head to his saddle-bow, his cheek crim- 
soned with very different emotion to that which had flushed 
it before, and the shout with which his men answered the 
king’s gratulation gave no token of the exhaustion which 
for the moment their herculean efforts had produced. 

Crestfallen and disappointed, Sir Robert Clifford, with 
his discomfited troops, returned to the main body. A su- 
perb pavilion had already been raised for the accommoda- 
tion of King Edward, whom the intense heat of the weather 
and the fatigues of a long march, encountered in full armor, 
a dress to which the delicate limbs of the monarch were little 
accustomed, had slightly discomposed ; and a gorgeous 
scene it presented, with its lordly inmates glittering in 
radiant armor, flowing plumes, and surcoats of thick silk, 
velvet, and brocade, heavily embroidered in gold and silver, 
sometimes in gems, with the devices of their wearers. They 
were all mostly tall, strongly-built frames, well adapted to 
their martial costumes, with countenances bearing that 
stamp of innate nobility, which the rules of chivalry so 
fostered and improved; diversified indeed, but, taking them 
all in all, noble specimens of the nobility of their land. 


486 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


Close by the monarch’s side, richly attired, and adorned 
with gems, was the court minstrel, whom Edward, confident 
in his victory, had brought with him to celebrate his tri- 
umph. Animated converse was passing amid the nobles, 
participated sometimes by the king, but more confined to 
themselves, as their topics, more of war than minstrelsy and 
the softer dreams of life, accorded little with the monarch’s 
general mood. The curtains of the pavilion were drawn 
widely back, so that Edward and his nobles had a full view 
of the field before them, and all the operations of the Scot- 
tish army, in the front of which the form of Robert Bruce 
was plainly to be seen, caracoling on the small horse he rode. 
Deep in the back shadows of the tent the young Earl of 
Gloucester was standing by his mother, sometimes speaking 
animately, but oftener more silent and thoughtful than 
usual. There was an anxious tearful affection gleaming in 
the princess’s eyes, as they rested on his young and grace- 
ful form, showing forth the beauty of its proportions 
through the exquisitely light and flexible suit of Milan steel 
which he wore, unencumbered by the usual surcoat which 
distinguished his companions. 

“ Wherefore hast thou forsaken the bearings of thy rank, 
my son ? ” asked the princess, more to break the silence 
which had fallen on them than from real curiosity. “ Me- 
thinks thou art scarce habited as thy father’s son.” 

“ ~N ay, mother, look on this splendid suit of steel, me- 
thinks thou wilt scarce find its equal amid my more gor- 
geously-decked companions,” he replied, with a smile ; “ an 
thou admirest it not, beshrew me, gentle lady, I shall quar- 
rel with thy taste.” 

“ And thou mightest with justice, Gilbert ; but in this, 
thy first engagement, should not thy noble rank be displayed 
in the eyes of all men ? Think who thou art — Earl Gilbert’s 
son and Edward’s nephew.” 

“ The first is all-sufficient, mother,” answered the young 
man, proudly. “ I am prouder as Earl Gilbert’s son than 
were I king of England, not his nephew, and for that fa- 
ther’s sake I wear not Gloucester’s bearings in the fight 
to-morrow. My father would not; he would shrink in suf- 
fering from meeting one he so loved, in deadly strife, as 
Bruce, though loyalty to Edward compelled him to the field, 
and men shall not say his son forgot these things.” 

The Countess of Gloucester looked on her noble boy, as 
mournfully, yet firmly, he uttered these words, his father’s 
spirit glistening in his eyes, and the tears, which had strug- 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


487 


gled for vent before, now fairly fell; he bent down and 
kissed them from her cheek. 

“ These were not always thy thoughts, my son,” she said, 
when voice returned ; “ what hath recalled them now ? ” 

“ My father’s self,” replied the young earl, solemnly. 
“ Start not, dearest mother ; in truth I did not think enough 
of him against whom my maiden sword must first be raised, 
I thought but of the animation, the excitement, the glory 
we might reap; I thought but of the battle, the delight of 
giving my sword its longed-for freedom, in the service of 
my sovereign. But yester-night, in the visions of deep 
sleep, I looked again upon my father.” 

“Was it sleep, my son?” interrupted the countess, her 
cheek blanched with the intensity of her emotion. 

“ It might not have been, yet so- it seemed, my mother ; it 
was not the thrilling awe with which methinks I should 
have gazed upon his semblance, had it palpably appealed to 
waking sense. I had slept soundly, it seemed, exhausted by 
continued marches, when gradually that sleep became less 
and less deep, as if the folds of unconsciousness in which my 
soul was wrapt were one by one unturned, and left the im- 
mortal spirit bare and purified for commune with its kin- 
dred essence passed above. I knew not where I was; but a 
shadowy cloud for a brief interval hovered like a silvery 
mist around me, subsiding gradually into the noble propor- 
tions, the majestic figure of my father. I sprung up, I 
knelt before him, struggling to speak, but without the 
power, yet it was more intense delight at gazing on his 
face again than awe. He looked upon me, methought, 
mournfully, and pressed his hand on my brow; pushing 
back my hair, as to look more fully on my face, ‘ Would, 
would it were not against the Bruce that thou must march, 
my noble boy,’ he said, solemnly and distinctly, ‘ and yet 
thy father’s spirit will hover round thee even then; raise 
not thy hand against him, his cause is blessed , let not his 
eye trace thee. My blessing on thee, Gilbert; soon, soon 
we shall meet again.’ Ha ! what means this — what is going 
on there ? ” continued the young earl, suddenly interrupt- 
ing himself, roused even from this tale by the sudden ani- 
mated bustle round the king, and partly, perhaps, with 
the wish to shake off the emotions of awe creeping over 
him, partly to give his mother more opportunity to regain 
the control which had almost deserted her at this painful 
corroboration of her own dim forebodings; he gently dis- 
engaged her almost unconscious pressure of his arm, raised 


488 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


her hand to his lips, and hastened from the tent. “ What, 
in St. George’s name, means this ? ” he demanded. “ Where 
goes Sir Henry de Bohun in this hot haste ? ” 

“ Like a loyal subject, to end the war at a single blow,” 
replied Edward, with some animation. “ He goes to do a 
goodly service to England, to us ; and the saints speed him.” 

“ Mean you he goes against the Bruce ? ’tis shame, foul 
shame to knighthood, an he doth! it cannot be.” 

“ To the devil with thy squeamishness, Gloucester! ” re- 
torted one of the elder barons ; “ all is fair in a strife like 
this.” 

“ Fair, armed as he is, and on such a charger, against one 
alike unprepared to receive him, and on a steed that must 
fall at his first thrust! Shame, shame on thee! Hereford, 
Arundel, for the honor of knighthood, prevent this. We 
are dishonored, a hundred times dishonored, an we let this 
be,” and the young earl darted from the tent, followed by 
the earls he had named, who, like himself, felt the dishonor 
of the deed, but an they hoped to prevent Sir Henry’s ad- 
vance, they were too late. Mounted on a superb charger, 
fresh, and pawing the ground with impatience to spring for- 
ward, a tall, powerful, almost gigantic man, armed from 
head to foot in burnished and gilded armor, his visor closed, 
his lance the length and thickness of a young palm, headed 
with sharp steel, couched for the charge. Sir Henry de 
Bohun gave his steed the spur, and rushed with such light- 
ning swiftness across the intervening ground against the 
Bruce, that those who had marked the movement held their 
very breath in the intensity of anxious suspense. Glouces- 
ter, uttering a cry almost of despair, remained, arrested in 
his flying progress, one arm raised, one leg advanced, watch- 
ing, in absolute agony the effect of an encounter he felt to 
his heart’s core must be fatal to the Bruce; his fears were 
needless. Calm and collected, as if no danger threatened, 
the King of Scotland sat his palfrey, giving no sign of prep- 
aration or even of consciousness of his foe’s approach, save 
that the fiery glance of his eye never wavered from his move- 
ments. On came the mighty warrior, on, on; his lance 
must bear down the patriot king; man and horse must fall 
together pinioned to the earth — on, on; they near, they 
meet — no, not meet; the palfrey, faithful to his master’s 
hand, swerved aside. De Bohun, carried on by the impetu- 
osity of his steed, passed the mark, but no further; the ter- 
rible battle-axe of the Bruce raised in air, flashing one 
moment in the sun, then fell, and cloven from his helmet to 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


489 


his throat, the force of the blow shattering the battle-axe 
into a hundred glittering fragments, Sir Henry de Bohun 
fell dead to the ground, his terrified charger rushing wildly 
to the ranks he had but five minutes previous left in pomp 
and pride. 


CHAPTER XXXYI. 

There was deep silence on the plain of Bannockburn — 
silence, as if not a breathing soul were there ; yet, when the 
shrouding drapery of night was drawn aside, when the deep 
rosy tint of the eastern skies proclaimed the swift advance 
of the god of day, what a glorious scene was there! Both 
armies were drawn forth facing each other. The vanguard 
of the English, composed of the archers and billmen, under 
command of Gloucester and Hereford, forming an impene- 
trable mass of above twenty thousand infantry, with a 
strong body of men-at-arms to support them, occupied the 
foremost space, directly in the rear, and partly on their 
right; the remainder of the army, consisting of nine divi- 
sions, completely covered and so straitened by the narrow 
ground on which they stood, as to present the appearance of 
one immense body, from which, as they slowly rolled for- 
ward toward the Scots, the rays of the morning sun played 
so dazzlingly on the gleaming armor, the unsheathed steel, 
the glittering spears, that ever and anon flashes of vivid 
light, as the blue lightning of heaven, darted through and 
round the lines; a sea of plumes formed the shadowy back- 
ground of their gleaming flashes, effectually aided by the 
heavy canopy of countless banners floating above them, far 
too numerous, too closely mingled, for many devices to be 
distinguished. In front of this immense mass, and slightly 
in the rear of Gloucester’s infantry, stood a regally attired 
group of about four hundred chevaliers, in the centre of 
which, gallantly mounted and splendidly accoutred in golden 
armor, his charger barded in unison, bearing himself in 
very truth right royally and bravely, as the son of his father, 
the monarch of England sate, his white and crimson plumes 
falling from his golden helmet in thick masses to his shoul- 
der. On his right hand rode the celebrated crusader, Sir 
Giles de Argentine, and on his left Sir Ingram Umphraville, 
an equally celebrated English baron, while to Aymer de 


490 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


Valence, Earl of Pembroke, already mentioned in this 
eventful history, was intrusted the command of the mon- 
arch’s body-guard, the four hundred men-at-arms, thus gath- 
ering round his own person a host of chivalry, unmatched 
in valor and in fame, save by the one mighty spirit who led 
the opposing troops. Directly behind the king, and in the 
centre of his knightly guard, waved the heavy folds of St. 
George’s standard; the situation of St. Edmund’s and St. 
Edward’s will be noticed hereafter. 

There was no change in the Scottish line; it occupied 
exactly the same position as of the preceding evening, save 
that King Robert, now mounted on a war-horse, magnificent 
in proportion, though almost gigantic in size and superbly 
barded, to suit the rank of his rider, had changed his posi- 
tion from the front of his lines to the spot commanding the 
second line, close beside the Lord of the Isles and the men 
of Garrick; concealed by these, but so near as to be ready 
for instant obedience to the signal of the king, stood a body 
of horse, and on these, though he spoke it not, Robert de- 
pended much for the ultimate glory of the day. 

The English army paused on their whelming way, halted 
to a man; the trumpets sounded their brazen clamor — the 
echoes of hundreds and thousands of hoofs ceased to rever- 
berate on the ground. Silence had fallen on that mighty 
multitude, a sudden thrilling stillness, like the awful hush 
of nature ere the bursting of a storm. It was at that moment 
a form was visible on that craggy summit rising midst the 
wood of St. Kinian’s, visible to all; for from that point the 
whole battle-plain, with its opposing armies, lay clear as a 
map, displaying every nook of ground, every movement of 
each army, without one hidden point — there stood that 
form, its dark drapery distinctly traced against the summer 
sky, visible to all, but noticed only by a few. Was it the 
near advance of the foe, the nearing of that eventful mo- 
ment, the strife for victory or death, which caused two 
hearts within King Robert’s army to throb almost to pain — 
the Lord of Douglas, Sir Amiot of the Branch ? Both had 
looked on death, had hoped for victory too often and too 
long for this. But not yet could the form of the Lady Iso- 
line Campbell meet their glance, yet find those hearts 
unmoved — one doubting glance; for could it be — could it 
indeed be Isoline ? It was but the doubt of the moment, for 
they knew hers was not a character to remain in passive 
endurance at the altar’s foot. She could face danger, she 
could gaze on death, and she would witness the fate of her 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


491 


country, watch the progress of her own, whatever it might 
cost her, rather than wait as others, calmly, passively, the 
result. Both warriors knew this; and if Douglas had 
needed further incentive to the superhuman efforts he had 
inwardly sworn to use, that glance had given it ; prouder he 
sate his charger, more loftily erect, and there was a glowing 
spirit of heroism in his soul, that might not speak defeat. 

And how felt Sir Amiot? Still, graceful as a sculptured 
statue, he sate his horse, whose sable hide, unspotted by a 
single hair of white, seemed well adapted to the dark, som- 
bre armor of his master; the visor of the helmet was of 
course closed, its heavy raven plumes lay resting on his 
shoulder, scarcely moving, so perfectly motionless was the 
attitude of the knight, by the breeze that so softly and reviv- 
ingly swept by. His answers to his sovereign’s animated 
converse had been so soldierlike and to the point, as usual, 
that Robert dreamed not the thoughts at work within that 
manly breast, guessed not how wholly, how painfully they 
were engrossed. The knight gazed upon that beautiful 
form, looked as an enthusiast votary on the idol of his 
adoration, and he felt that midst that multitude her heart’s 
gaze was upon him; yet how dared he rejoice it was so? A 
sickness as of death crept over him ; she was there to ^witness 
his efforts to obtain her, to bless him with the encourage- 
ment of her angel presence — and what would she behold? 
Oh, who may speak the agony of that one moment, crushing 
his very soul ! he felt as if his whole frame were bowed be- 
fore it to the earth, on which he almost wished to lay when 
that fight was over, midst the glorious dead. She might 
weep him then. Despair was on his heart — black, cold, 
nerveless despair. Yet hope struggled up from the turbid 
chaos ; he would triumph, still triumph ! and the banner of 
St. Edward waved in air, divided from St. Edmund’s by the 
whole extent of the intervening line, the one at the extreme 
right, the other at the extreme left, presenting insuperable 
obstacles to his ambition, rendering the very dream of gain- 
ing both the mad coinage of an unsettled brain. 

The Lady Isoline gazed on the scene beneath her, for the 
first moment so wholly wrapped in a species of thrilling awe 
and exciting admiration as to lose entirely the recollection 
how much her own happiness depended on the event. She 
heard not the half-timorous, half-suppressed exclamations 
of wonder, admiration, and terror, breaking in a strange 
medley from her companion, an attendant who had con- 
quered her own fears of a battle rather than her beloved 
32 


492 


THE BAYS OF BRUCE. 


lady should look on such a sight alone. For one minute 
Isoline Campbell was an enthusiast, a patriot — seeing noth- 
ing, feeling nothing but the glory of her country, the danger 
to which it was exposed — the belief, conviction, certainty, 
she would triumph over all ; the next she was but a woman, 
a loving woman, seeing but one amid that wondrous mass, 
trembling lest she had exposed him unto death. Why did 
he not look up, give one sign he saw, he felt her presence? 
One moment she thought thus, the next reproached herself 
for wishing one thought apart from Scotland at a moment 
such as this. 

Suddenly, and so simultaneously it seemed but the move- 
ment of one man, the followers of her uncle, the assembled 
troops of every class and every line, sunk one knee to earth ; 
plumes mingled with the manes of the chargers, as every 
helmeted head bent down in lowliest adoration. A half 
shout of exultation seemed waking from the English ranks, 
as if they deemed it was an acknowledgment of their superi- 
ority this lowly homage was paid; but speedily the shout 
sunk into murmurs, then died away, as the cause of this 
unexpected movement became visible. Bareheaded, bare- 
footed, his silver crosier in his aged hand, Maurice, Abbot 
of Inchaffray, in full canonicals, followed by five monks, 
slowly and majestically passed before the Scottish lines, in 
loud, unfaltering tones pronouncing his blessing on their 
brief though fervidly-breathed orisons, and on their pa- 
triotic purpose. There was no tremor in his step, no fal- 
tering in his voice, and, struck with admiring awe, the 
English hushed the signal for the onset on their very lips. 

Isoline watched the progress of the venerable man with 
an intensity of interest that checked the words of prayer, 
though they had language in her heart. He passed from her 
sight; the warriors sprung from their kneeling posture; 
the knights sat anew, erect and firm, on their pawing char- 
gers. A hundred trumpets sounded from the English line, 
followed by a rush like thunder, and a discharge of arrows 
so thick, so close, the very air was darkened ; they dispersed, 
and again the whole field was visible to Isoline. Onward, in 
full career against Edward Bruce’s left wing, the Earls of 
Hereford and Gloucester rushed; but one glance sufficed to 
prove somewhat had chanced to discompose their steady 
union, and that they had rushed forward to the charge with 
infinitely more of rivalship than order. Again and yet again 
they strove to penetrate the solid ranks of the Scottish 
spearmen; horses rolled on the earth, flung headlong back 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


493 


by the massive spears, leaving their masters, often unwound- 
ed, to the mercy of their foes. Fiercely and valiantly the 
earls struggled to retrieve their first error, and restore order 
to their men-at-arms. Indignant, almost enraged, Glouces- 
ter fought like a young lion, and little did his enemies im- 
agine the youthful knight, whose mighty efforts excited 
even their admiration, was the very noble for whose safety 
their monarch was so anxious, that almost his last command 
had been to spare the Earl of Gloucester. 

Meanwhile, taking advantage of this confusion, Douglas 
and Randolph, at the head of their respective divisions, at- 
tacked with skill and admirably tempered courage the mass 
of infantry, who stood bewildered at the unexpected dis- 
comfiture of the body they had looked to for support; the 
charge, however, roused them to their wonted courage, and 
they resisted nobly. Again the archers raised their deadly 
weapons to the ear, and again the air became thick with the 
flight of arrows, longer, heavier, more continued than be- 
fore. Their effect was too soon perceived in the ranks of 
the spearmen; many places left void, which had received 
unmoved the charge of the men-at-arms. Quick as the 
lightning flash, King Robert darted along the line. “ Now, 
then, Sir Robert Keith, on for Scotland — the Bruce and lib- 
erty ! ” he shouted ; and quick as the words were spoken, the 
Marshal of Scotland, at the head of four hundred men-at- 
arms, wheeled round full gallop, and charged the English 
bow-men in the flank and rear with such vigor and precision, 
as speedily to turn them from their fatal attack upon the 
Scots to their own defence — a defence which, as they had 
no weapons save their bows and short hangers, was of little 
service, ill-conducted, and of no effect against the cavalry; 
they fell in numbers, and thicker and thicker waxed the 
confusion and the strife. It was now the Scottish archers’ 
turn to gall their adversaries : the flight of arrows fell swift 
and true; and still, despite the vigorous proceedings of the 
Scottish troops, the greater part of Edward’s mighty army 
remained wavering and uncertain in their position. Now 
and then a body of gallantly accoutred horse rushed for- 
ward, joining indiscriminately in the melee , but neither 
order nor steadiness marked their movements. Edward 
himself indeed proved worthy of his high descent ; his white 
and crimson plumes waved alternately in every part of the 
field, marking that no lack of personal bravery was there, 
though the talents of a general were either much needed, or 
the confined and unequal ground utterly frustrated effec- 


494 


THE DAYS OF BKUCE. 


tual movements of the horse, and rendered the greater 
strength of Edward’s army literally useless. 

The Bruce had returned to his post, his eagle glance 
moved not for an instant from the field. Order had disap- 
peared from the English ranks, their massive bands broken 
through and through, tottering, falling like gigantic col- 
umns shaken by mighty winds; while firm, cool, inflexi- 
ble, the bodies of the Scotch rushed among them, dealing 
destruction at every step, proving superiority, valor, 
strength, in the very face of numbers. Straggling, waver- 
ing troops from the main body of the English still joined 
the scene of action, imagining by force of numbers to turn 
the day. All was confusion ; the clash of arms ; the rush of 
horse; the heavy fall of hundreds, in their onward charge, 
in the pits prepared ; knights rolling on the sward, receiving 
death often from the hoofs of their own steeds ere the aveng- 
ing sword-stroke of their foes. 

“ See, lady, see the gallant Douglas, how gloriously he 
bears himself ! ” at length exclaimed the companion of 
the Lady Isoline, unable longer to remain silent, much 
marvelling at the lady’s taciturnity. “ There waves St. 
Edmund’s banner. I marvel he lets it remain so long 
unsought.” 

“ He seeks it not alone, girl. The Douglas is too noble 
to attempt its capture till the Bruce gives the signal, and 
permits the young nobles round him to seek it too. Ha, 
merciful Heaven! see yon English knight who hath borne 
himself so valiantly; he totters on his horse, his very armor 
seems concealed in blood. Oh, spare him, Douglas! Who 
may he be ? ” 

“ Noble, lady, by his hearing and his heading that fore- 
most line. Wherefore doth he not wear the surcoat like his 
companions? We should know him then. Ah! they are 
parted by the rush of battle, his plume waves on the other 
side of the field.” 

“ The saints be praised ! I would not Douglas’s hand 
should slay him, he bears himself so nobly. Yet, alas ! how 
many are there like him in yon field of blood ; why should I 
lament him more than others? Hark, a trumpet sounds! 
there is a movement in the king’s line. Now then — oh, 
mother of mercy, give me strength, I will look upon them 
still!” 

So spoke Isoline, her heart throbbing almost to suffoca- 
tion, as she recognized in the movement of her uncle the 
signal for that general rush to hand-in-hand engagement 


THE DAYS OF BIvUCE. 


495 


which permitted space and time for the ardent aspirants to 
her hand to seek and win the prize. 

The voice of the Bruce met her ear, but its strained sense 
could not distinguish the words, though her heart conceived 
them. Galloping from line to line, “ Forward, young 
knights, seekers of love and glory, St. Edmund and St. 
Edward wait ye ! ” he exclaimed. “ Lord of the Isles, my 
hope is constant in thee ! ” and dashing down the slope on 
which he stood, rushed into the thickest of the fight, fol- 
lowed by all his reserve troops, and for the first moment 
closely surrounded by the gallant band of youthful cheva- 
liers, whose ardent spirits had been with difficulty so long 
restrained; fresh, eager, joyous, on, on they charged, seem- 
ing, in the confusion of their foes, infinitely more numer- 
ous than in reality they were, turning retreat to flight, wav- 
ering to retreat ; hundreds, nay, thousands turned from that 
fatal field, leaving uncounted thousands struggling glori- 
ously still.” 

“ They retreat — they fly, bearing the banner with them. 
Lady, lady — Douglas, Strathallan, Fraser — on, on they 
rush; they will gain it still. Now they halt; they have 
gathered round it; numbers flock to join them, double, 
treble file. Lady, sweet lady, thy cheek hath grown white, 
thy limbs tremble ; let us away.” 

“ No, no, no ! ” reiterated Isoline, sinking even as she 
spoke upon the grass ; “ it is folly — weak, cowardly folly. 
Mine eyes ache with the glare of sunshine on so many coats 
of steel, ’tis nothing more. Look forth, my girl, do not 
heed me; tell me, Sir Amiot, the Knight of the Blighted 
Branch, seest thou not him — goes he not with Douglas? I 
have lost him in the crush of men and horse around the 
king ; yet he is there, I know he is there — he must be there.” 

“ Wears he not a sable plume — rides he not a sable horse, 
unmatched for blackness in our army? He is yonder, look 
thyself, sweet lady; alone he rides, well-nigh alone. Why, 
Tis madness ; St. Edward’s banner is still guarded by a host 
of knights, with pointed lance and barded chargers ; he can- 
not reach it — he is mad ; no, there are other knights on the 
same course.” 

“ St. Edward’s, saidst thou — St. Edward’s ? ’tis St. Ed- 
mund’s thou must mean; Sir Amiot seeks St. Edmund’s. 
Girl, thine eyes deceive thee.” 

“ I cry thee mercy, lady, but they do not ; see, see, thy- 
self — the Douglas is on one side of the field, Sir Amiot on 
the other.” 


496 


THE DAYS OF BKUCE. 


“ ’Tis false — it must be false ! ” burst indignantly from 
the lady’s lips, and endowed with sudden return of strength, 
she sprung up. She looked with desperate calmness on the 
scene below; all was strife — fierce, hot strife — of horse to 
horse, and man to man. On the brink of Bannockburn, the 
extreme right, a massive body of men-at-arms had made a 
desperate stand around the sacred banner of St. Edmund, 
falling in their ranks, yet still presenting an unbroken front 
to the Douglas and the rival knights, who, each seconded by 
their respective followers, sought with desperate courage to 
reach the much- desired prize. Defusing all credence to the 
words of her attendant, so firmly, so truthfully did she trust , 
Isoline first glanced there, but the form of the Lonely Cava- 
lier answered not that glance. Despite the press, the rush, 
the turmoil, every form was distinct to that penetrating 
gaze ; she could even at that distance recognize the various 
bearings of the young nobles who had so eagerly sought her 
hand; not one was wanting, but that one whom most she 
trusted to behold. Desperately, without the utterance of a 
single syllable, she turned, and with a shuddering anguish, 
turning her whole mass of blood it seemed to ice, she beheld, 
recognized the form of Sir Amiot, urging his horse full 
speed, far, far in advance of his companions, with about a 
score of lances and some fifty men on foot, directing his 
headlong way to the extreme left, where, still surrounded by 
its guard of men-at-arms and billmen, the banner of St. 
Edward waved unsullied. She saw, she felt every cherished 
dream was over ; then came upon her soul such a dark chaos 
of troubled fancies which no effort of her own could dispel; 
the belief for one brief moment that he had played upon her 
feelings, had deceived her, the next she flung it from her 
soul, indignant with herself; he could not deceive. If she 
lost him forever, she would trust him, aye, trust, till his own 
lips proclaimed him false. There was mystery — dark, im- 
penetrable mystery; they had told her of the recompense 
attendant on the capture of St. Edward’s banner, but what 
was that to him? then came the delivery of the prisoners, 
and then one dark and terrible suspicion, and then again 
she cast it from her. 

“ No, no, no ! ” she inwardly reiterated; “ that vow, that 
fearful vow hath come between him and his love. When he 
bowed down his knee, avowing his long-hidden love for me, 
he knew not of this second meed of valor; he dreamed not 
the fulfilment of his vow should come between us. Amiot, 
Amiot, there is indeed dark mystery around thee, yet, yet, I 


THE DAYS OF BIIUCE. 


497 


will trust thee ; lost to me as thou art, I will not believe thee 
false ! Oh ! why didst thou not speak ? why leave this too 
proud heart so long doubting that which it so longed for? 
Lost, lost, and through my own folly! — how may I bear 
this ? God of mercy ! ” she burst forth aloud, “ he will fall 
through his own rashness; he cannot pierce that wall of 
steel — oh, save him, save him ! ” 

Her own voice rang shrill and mocking in her ears, for 
who ’mid the rude clamor reigning below might hear and 
answer it? The strife was becoming more and more gen- 
eral, more and more deadly, despite the multitude in rapid 
retreat. Edward of England still kept his ground, flying 
from post to post, from group to group, urging, impelling, 
conjuring them still to stand, to recall the ancient glories 
of his father, and make one last effort for England’s honor ; 
and struck by this unexpected spirit in their much-abused 
sovereign, his warriors, rallying the drooping spirits of their 
men, still presented a formidable front to their determined 
foes. The order of battle was utterly broken; but above a 
score of detached groups still struggled on, falling on both 
sides without giving in one inch of ground. Already the 
excellent generalship of the Bruce was evident; the pride, 
the flower of English chivalry lay helpless in the pits pre- 
pared to check the evolutions of the horses, falling before 
the pitiless swords of the lower soldiery, or surrendering 
themselves unresisting prisoners to their leaders. Ever and 
anon came a rush like thunder of flying steeds, proclaiming 
some new retreat, followed headlong by the victorious Scots, 
whose thrilling shouts of triumph angered well-nigh to 
madness their flying foes. The noble form of the Bruce, 
carrying victory, glory wherever he appeared, welcomed with 
rejoicing cries by his own men, who, even as they fell, felt 
that if their dim glance caught him they looked on triumph, 
and by their enemies as one bringing defeat, captivity, death. 
Here, there, everywhere, as possessed for the time with ubi- 
quity, his glorious form was seen; his white plume waving 
high above his fellows, its spotless purity unsullied by one 
sanguine stain, one tinge of dust. The bravest barons of 
England shunned his sword, deeming it scarce shame to 
turn aside and refuse combat with one invulnerable as him- 
self. Scathless the monarch of Scotland rode that field; 
the distant arrow bounded harmless from his faultless 
armor; the weapons, close at hand, turned ere they struck 
one blow; the lance had no power to turn his gigantic 
charger from his onward way; and thus he seemed, alike 


498 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


in view of friends and foes, the spirit of that mighty strife, 
the soul of victory, on which no mortal hand had power. 

While this general struggle thus continued, neither 
Douglas nor Sir Amiot had relaxed their herculean efforts. 
Around the rival banners the battle in truth waxed hottest; 
for so great, so intense was the desire to possess them, not a 
Scotsman fell but his place was instantly filled up with war- 
riors as hot, as eager as had been the dead. On through the 
closely-pressed lines, followed by about a dozen men-at- 
arms, spears threatening destruction both to man and horse, 
swords clashing against swords, with a heat, a velocity, only 
slackening in death, well-nigh surrounded, wholly cut off 
from his friends by a thick wall of hostile steel — on, within 
twenty yards of St. Edward’s banner, Sir Amiot still strug- 
gled, possessed in seeming of a giant’s strength, a power to 
ward, to attack, to guard, to return blow for blow, all at one 
and the same moment, till his very foes gazed at him almost 
in awe, and had it not been for very shame, would have 
shunned a blade that seemed by magic charmed. On, on, 
yet closer, but still a double, aye, triple file of men and 
horse circled the banner; they closed round the desperate 
knight, in front, in flank, in rear ; a dozen war-cries shouted 
the advance through death. The companions of Sir Amiot, 
believing the enterprise for them impossible, bore slightly 
back, and alone, amid that armed multitude, alone, amid 
scornful shouts of victory, of jeers on his rashness, still 
woke in ringing tones the war-cry of Sir Amiot. 

“ On, for freedom — freedom for the prisoners of Scot- 
land ! Amiot to the rescue — rescue to the death ! ” and his 
sword fell, carrying death with every word. 

At that moment new shouts arose of triumph, of de- 
spair; the closing ranks fell back, appalled by the sound, 
and still more by the apparition that sound preceded. On 
the brow of the hill rising behind the Scottish lines, an im- 
mense body of men, with an incongruous assemblage of 
flags, banners, poles, and rustic weapons, suddenly springing 
it seemed from the bowels of the earth, and in the act of 
rushing down the slope with terrible cries, and clanging 
drums and uncouth horns, sending such terror to the hearts 
of England’s lordliest warriors, that all thought save of 
flight departed from them. The very Scotch themselves 
were startled, though scarcely able to suppress a smile, when 
recognizing in this new army the servants or gillies, women, 
and children, followers of the camp, sent there for safety, 
but who, incited by the patriotic spirit of their victorious 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


499 


countrymen, rushed down to the plain to share the triumph 
and the spoil. The English waited not to examine the ori- 
gin of their suddenly-awakened panic, the divisions still 
compact gave way; they sought to rally the staggering col- 
umns, to give them once more force and firmness, but in 
vain. On every side the trumpets sounded retreat, and fast, 
fast as their panting steeds might fly, the English fled that 
fatal scene. The lines around St. Edward’s banner faltered 
with the rest; those on the rear and flank of Sir Amiot fair- 
ly turned, offering such slender resistance to the Scottish 
knights who stood in their path, that ere he knew the cause 
Sir Amiot suddenly found himself gallantly reinforced ; but 
he was scarcely conscious of it, head, hand, foot, all em- 
ployed in every movement of his foes; in resisting every 
weapon raised against him ; in urging on his faithful horse, 
while a score of lances broke against his steel-clad sides. 
They turn — they fly; the banner seems within his reach; 
one leap will gain it ; forward above a hundred yards in ad- 
vance of his companions fought the Lonely Cavalier, first 
in pursuit; they bear the sacred banner in their flight. Sir 
Amiot rushes onward, nor spur nor rein hath slackened; he 
nears, so close, so fiercely, they rally once again, they close 
round their precious charge, but in vain — headlong, inspired, 
Sir Amiot penetrates the glittering phalanx, his hand is on 
the banner-staff; one by one its gallant defenders fall be- 
neath his sword; his mother’s voice is sounding in his 
ear, his mother’s smile, and look, and form are gleaming 
before him; shall he fail now? — no, no; appalled, his ene- 
mies shrink back from his reeking sword, one struggle to re- 
trieve their loss, and they turn, they fly. A wild exulting 
shout burst from Sir Amiot’s men, but his lips breathe no 
word, though his task is done; high, high in the air he 
waves the sacred banner — his own, unanswerably his own — 
and round him the young knights throng, nobly striving 
who first amid his eager rivals should proclaim him victor. 

“Not now, not now!” he shouted, almost breathless, 
“ not yet may I pause; enough, ye own me victor. Fitz- 
Alan, bear thou this glorious charge till I may claim it; 
ask me no question, give me but way — I have more, yet 
more to do.” 

Sir Walter Fitz-Alan joyfully caught the banner, check- 
ing with an effort the question of his lips. There was an 
irresistible eloquence in the tone of his impassioned voice, 
in the beaming flash of his large dark eye, carrying his own 
hope and daring energy to the hearts of his companions; 


500 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


they opened a passage for him. He darted on, foam and 
blood well-nigh concealing alike the armor and the color of 
. his steed. One glance he gave toward the crag, that form 
was there, still there; an impulse he could not resist caused 
him, even at such a moment, to lift his helmet from his 
brow, to wave it in the air. Did his eyes deceive him, or 
could it be even then, then — when the heart of any ordinary 
woman must have doubted, scorned him — he saw an answer- 
ing sign, a blue scarf as a pennon floated on the breeze! 
Fancy or reality, the effect was such as to make him dash 
the helmet to the earth, instead of replacing it on his head, 
wholly unconscious, in the reviving hope of that one mo- 
ment, that he had done so, to clasp his hands together in a 
speechless ecstasy of joy, to snatch the reins, plunge his 
spurs once more into the sides of his gallant steed, and dash 
on his headlong way. He saw the banner of St. Edmund 
yet waved amid its gallant guard, about a mile from the 
scene of action, as if the fugitives had there made their de- 
termined stand, resolved to perish ere they yielded ; still his 
eye traced the towering form of Douglas, foremost against 
his foes, dealing, as himself had done but a few minutes 
previous, destruction with every blow; so rapid were his 
evolutions both of steed and sword, the eye ached with the 
effort to define them. On, on darted Sir Amiot, dashing 
down every opposing sword, every obstacle that crossed his 
headlong way ; on, on, over unnumbered slain, over chargers 
rolling in the death agony on the grass, over pools whose 
gory waves gave fearful evidence of the strife that had 
been there ; on, through the brook of Bannock, turning with 
shuddering horror even at such a moment from making a 
bridge of the hundreds and hundreds of slain which encum- 
bered the stream, so as completely to fill up its waters ; stag- 
gering, failing, almost exhausted, still the noble animal he 
rode, as if conscious of the precious prize he sought, bore 
him gallantly up the steep bank, on with renewed swiftness 
in the direction of the banner ; he neared the scene of strife, 
not a quarter of a mile divided him. Still the banner 
waved in air, still the Douglas, chafed by this long struggle, 
almost beyond his usual moderation, struggled fiercely, ter- 
ribly to penetrate those ranks, leaving every other competi- 
tor far in the rear; some of them must have fallen, for Sir 
Amiot traced but two beside him, and nerved with dohble 
hope, with an energy that appeared bright promise of suc- 
cess, wholly insensible of fatigue, of loss of blood, of all save 
that Isoline might yet be his own, the knight rushed on ; his 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


501 


horse staggered, relaxed, made one desperate forward leap, 
and fell. Another minute and Sir Amiot regained his foot- 
ing, though with a dizzy brain and quivering frame; still 
he struggled to spring forward, he stood within a hundred 
yards of the desired post. A loud shout rent the air, the 
last man beside the banner lay dead beneath the hoofs of 
the Douglas’s steed, the hand of Douglas had wrenched it 
from the earth where it was planted, had held it aloft, while 
shout after shout proclaimed his victory. The earth reeled 
beneath Sir Amiot’s feet; sight, hearing, sense seemed fly- 
ing. He looked up to that same crag, the form he sought 
was gone, or his eyes refused to recognize it; there was a 
dead weight on heart and brain, a cessation of every pulse, 
a failing of every limb, and the young warrior sunk to all 
appearance lifeless on the earth. 

While these momentous events were taking place in dif- 
ferent parts of the plain, Sir Giles de Argentine had suc- 
ceeded in forcing his sovereign from the fatal field. Fierce- 
ly Edward had contended, exposing himself a hundred times 
to death, imprisonment, danger of every kind, flying from 
post to post, seeking by every possible effort of high personal 
valor to turn the tide of battle. 

“ Away, away ! ” he cried, as Sir Giles seized the reins of 
his horse, and urged him forward; “ where are De Vesay, 
Montford, De Clifford, Mareschal? Have I not seen them 
fall ? — is not their blood around me ? Leave me, De Argen- 
tine; my people hate me, they will hate me more for this, 
though God wot, all that man might do to avert this evil I 
have done. Leave me to lie with those more valued than 
myself.” 

“ My liege, it shall not be,” firmly replied the crusader. 
“ Do not speak thus, it ill befits thee as England’s king or 
Edward’s son. A monarch’s life is not his own; wert thou 
other than thou art, De Argentine were the last to compel or 
counsel flight, but as it is, thou shalt live, my liege, to make 
thy people love thee.” 

“ They will not, they will not,” resumed the unfortunate 
monarch ; “ and wherefore wouldst thou lead me ? Leave 
me; seek my sister, bear her in safety. Gloucester, my 
noble Gloucester, where is he ? ” 

“ Away, away ! ” answered the knight ; “ they press upon 
us close. My Lord of Pembroke, bring round your men, 
see to the king.” 

De Valence heard the words, and with a skilful ma- 
noeuvre completely encircled the person of the king, and on 


502 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


they fled, keeping close and firm, till the press of the battle 
was left far behind. 

“ Now then, farewell, my liege,” exclaimed the crusader, 
as for one brief minute he threw himself off his steed, knelt 
at Edward’s stirrup, raised his hand to his lips, and then 
sprung anew into his saddle. “ I leave thee in safety ; it is 
thy duty to retreat, it is mine to die. Never did an Ar- 
gentine fly. Farewell.” He set spurs to his charger, and 
ere Edward could utter one word in reply he was out of 
sight. 

Again the terrible war-cry, “ Argentine, Argentine ! ” re- 
sounded on the battle-plain, followed by the figure of the 
undaunted warrior, charging full speed the thickest of the 
Scottish ranks, forward, still forward, though utterly alone. 
“ Yield, yield thee honorable prisoner,” burst from hundreds 
of voices, but he heeded or heard not the appeal ; they would 
have saved him, they sought to elude his desperate purpose, 
but De Argentine, resolved on death, flung himself into 
the hottest of the strife, and found it ; he fell, covered with 
glory as with wounds. 

Evening at length fell upon the victors, the pursuers, 
and the flying; the sounds of war, the cries of the dying, 
the shouts of the victor, had sunk into silence on the battle- 
plain. Troop after troop of the victorious Scots had re- 
turned, bringing with them prisoners of the first rank and 
consequence. The slain lay in immense heaps over the field, 
covering the country for miles; hundreds and hundreds of 
splendidly caparisoned chargers lay side by side with their 
noble masters; others were galloping, riderless, over the 
field, trembling with terror, shrieking fierce with pain. 
But when the summer moon rode high in the starlit heav- 
ens the scene was changed. Surrounded by his nobles, 
knights, and soldiers, bareheaded, and lowly bending to the 
blood-stained earth, the King of Scotland knelt, to join in 
the fervent thanksgiving offered up by the Abbot of Inchaf- 
f ray to that Almighty God of battles, from whom alone king 
and noble, knight and serf, acknowledged with heartfelt 
humility that glorious triumph came. Not a sound broke 
the solemn stillness, save the fervid accents of the venerable 
man, the deep responses from the thousands kneeling round. 
There, in sight of the dead, the dying, the silvery moon 
gleaming back from the armor they had had no time to doff, 
the weapons they had wielded so bravely and well, cast from 
the hands now crossed upon their breasts in prayer, the un- 
helmeted heads low bent — there was that victorious army, 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


503 


there the bold hearts, conscious of but one almighty thrill- 
ing emotion, urging to a burst of thanksgiving equal in 
intensity to its exciting cause; their souls sprung up rejoic- 
ing. The last link of slavery was broken — they were free! 
Scotland was free ! 

A brief while they knelt in devotion, and then again all 
was joyous bustle and military life. Officers and soldiers 
alike crowded round their sovereign, to every one of whom 
he had a word alike of greeting and of thanks, eagerly scan- 
ning the features of each, as fearing even in that moment 
of triumph to find some loved and valued one amid the 
slain, but even this alloy was spared him; his loss had been 
so small, that but two knights of any consideration, Sir 
William Vipont and Sir Walter Ross, were among the slain; 
several nobles indeed were seriously wounded, and among 
them some of the brave competitors for the hand of Iso- 
line, whose energy- and desperate valor had led them into 
danger. 

“ Douglas — where is Douglas ? ” asked the king, impa- 
tiently, and a dozen voices answered he was still on the 
pursuit, bearing St. Edmund’s banner as his prize. 

“ He was the victor, then. How every saint in heaven be 
praised!” ejaculated Robert. “ Douglas, my noble Doug- 
las, there needed but this to render this day’s triumph com- 
plete; and St. Edward’s, whose valiant arm planteth St. 
Andrew’s banner on Stirling’s loftiest tower — whose glo- 
rious task gives liberty to her captives ? ” 

“ Sir Amiot of the Branch ! ” was the unanimous reply. 

“ Ha ! my noble Amiot ; ’tis as we suspected. Where is 
the gallant knight — why claims he not his own ? ” 

“ He will to-morrow, good my liege,” the light form of 
Malcolm the page pushed through the lordly crowd to an- 
swer the question. “ He is faint from loss of blood — though, 
praised be the saints, not fatally wounded. He commends 
himself to your highness, and trusts by to-morrow’s dawn to 
demand his recompense.” 

“ ’Tis his ere asked,” replied the king. “ Say we greet 
him lovingly and rejoicingly, and grieve he is not by our 
side. We will visit him ourself ere we seek repose. Ha! 
Eitz-Alan, methought ’twas from thy hand St. Edward’s 
banner waved, and looked to greet thee victor ? ” 

“ Hay, I was but its bearer for Sir Amiot, good my liege,” 
replied the young knight, modestly. “ I might not hope to 
outvie him in the pursuit of this precious charge.” 

“ But thou wert close behind him, Walter,” answered the 


504 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


king, laughing. “ Thou art a good knight and true, and 
hast nobly won thy spurs.” 

The young warrior bowed low, with cheeks glowing with 
unfeigned pleasure. 

“ Had not his horse failed him, the Douglas had had a 
powerful rival even for Sir Edmund’s in this same Sir 
Amiot,” observed another of the group. “ By my knightly 
faith, I never saw such mighty strength and prowess.” 

“ St. Edmund’s ! — sought he St. Edmund’s ? ha ! ” ex- 
claimed King Robert ; but what further he might have said 
was interrupted by the hasty entrance of his brother, fol- 
lowed by about ten men-at-arms, in the centre of whom 
stood an English prisoner. 

“ In this prisoner,” said Edward Bruce, fiercely, “ I bring 
your highness an attainted traitor, one deserving death — 
Alan of Buchan.” 

An exclamation of surprise, triumph, and execration, all 
strangely blended, ran through the crowd, save from the 
king himself. 

“ That Alan of Buchan ! ” he said ; “ thou art mistaken, 
good brother. We could swear that were not the Alan we 
have known, by this first glance, even before we see his face. 
Why, when Alan disappeared, he would make two such men 
as he. Unhelm him; ye surely cannot all have forgotten 
the noble son of Isabella.” 

He was instantly obeyed, and on the removal of the 
helmet, a movement to which the prisoner made not the 
least resistance, a face was discovered so wholly unlike the 
bold, frank, noble countenance of the young heir of Buchan, 
which even nearly eight years had failed entirely to erase 
from the recollection of his countrymen, that Edward Bruce 
himself started back astonished. There was the raven hair, 
the dark eye, in very truth, features which had been so often 
brought forward by rumor in confirmation of his identity, 
but the expression of which they formed a part was as un- 
like that of Alan as night from day. His was all expression, 
this was an utter blank; not devoid, perhaps, of regularity 
of feature, but wholly of that sparkling intellect, the enthu- 
siastic spirit, which had so characterized Sir Alan, who re- 
sembled his mother to an almost extraordinary degree; and 
if there were any likeness in the face of the prisoner, it was 
to the Earl of Buchan, save that that which in the earl was 
harsh and dark, in him was softened into a blank ; his figure, 
too, though apparently well proportioned, was peculiarly 
slight and effeminate, whereas Alan’s had been vigorous. 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


505 


and tall as a sapling pine. The young man made no at- 
tempt at concealment, nor did he seem to shun the stern 
looks he encountered. 

“ Who and what art thou ? ” at length demanded the 
king, somewhat sternly ; “ by what right bearest thou a name 
and cognizance we know are not thine own? Speak, and 
truly, as thou hopest for life, or, by our crown, thou shalt 
rue thy falsehood.” 

“ My name is Alan, and a father’s justice made me Alan 
of Buchan,” replied the young man, more firmly and boldly 
than was expected. “ It was enough for me to do as he bade 
me, without inquiring wherefore. The king and peers of 
England received me as my father’s son, a mother’s dying 
lips had given me that father’s name; he claimed and treat- 
ed me in all things as his son: my duty then was to obey 
him.” 

“ So far thou hast spoken well,” replied the Bruce, less 
sternly ; “ but was it thy duty, by falsehood, to cast foul 
shame upon a noble name, and poison Scottish ears by the 
black tale that Alan of Buchan repented of his former oaths 
of fealty to ourself, and would atone for them by fidelity to 
Edward, and by ceaseless vengeance on the Bruce ? ” 

“ My lips were guiltless of such falsehood, gracious sov- 
ereign,” and a deep blush stained the young man’s cheek. 
“ True, I asserted what my father bade me; but such as this 
I never breathed. Perchance ’twas equal guilt by silence to 
affirm that which he so frequently proclaimed; but the fa- 
vor of my sovereign, the intoxicating pleasures of a court, 
drowned the voice of conscience.” 

“ And of him whom thou hast personated,” said the king, 
with earnestness, “ knowest thou aught of him ? an thou 
tellest us Sir Alan lives, that we may find or rescue him, in- 
stant freedom shall be thy reward.” 

“ Alas ! I fear, my liege, it was his death which opened 
his father’s heart to me. I have thought, by the dark, hor- 
rible accents of remorse breathed in slumber by the Earl of 
Buchan, that death came not naturally, and I have shud- 
dered when I knew that I was occupying the place of one 
fearfully and secretly removed. I believed my father dead, 
when, three months since, a packet was brought to me by one 
who had received it direct from the earl in Norway, sealed 
by his own signet and signed by his own hand. It bad me 
seek the King of Scotland, and place in his hands a paper 
inclosed. Preparations were then making for the relief of 
Stirling; I could not quit King Edward’s side without dis- 


506 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


honor, and therefore determined on surrendering myself 
prisoner, if I could not otherwise obtain the audience I de- 
sired : and now that my task is done,” he knelt and present- 
ed a sealed packet, which he had drawn from his vest, “ your 
grace may do with me what you list.” 

“ Ha ! is it so ? ” exclaimed the Bruce, hastily breaking 
the large seal and thick silk with which the packet was se- 
cured, disregarding every entreaty of his followers to beware 
lest the scrawl were poisoned. “ There is truth in every 
word the youth speaks. Buchan, treacherous as he is, would 
not make him so base a tool. No ! his better nature is fair- 
ly roused. Ha! what is this?” he glanced his eye rapidly 
down the page, then read aloud — “To Robert the Bruce, ere- 
whiles Earl of Carrick and Baron of Annandale, now king 
of the whole Scottish realm, these : — Whereas I have hith- 
erto declared and proclaimed Alan of Buchan, son of the 
Countess Isabella, a rebel and a traitor to Scotland, and true 
and faithful liegeman to King Edward ; one under a solemn 
pledge to carry on his father’s vow of extermination against 
the Bruce. I hereby do utterly and solemnly deny the same, 
declaring, by the sacred name of God and the whole army of 
saints and martyrs, that I have done him foul wrong, and 
that he who bears the name of Alan of Buchan is not the 
child of Isabella of Fife, but one born in unlawful wedlock, 
and but brought from obscurity to assist a foul and wicked 
scheme of vengeance against both Isabella and her child. I 
here, from a bed in all human seeming of death, do acknowl- 
edge sincere repentance of the same, and publicly avow I 
have foully injured both my wife and son; holding the 
one pure and spotless, alike in thought and deed, and for 
the other, Robert the Bruce, if ever he seek thee, let not the 
aspersions cast upon his name come between him and thy 
favor; he is as true to thee and Scotland as his father has 
been rebellious against both. — Signed, John Comyn of 
Buchan, at the Monastery of St. Bernard, in the Vale of 
Christiania, Norway;” and further attested by the abbot 
and other superiors of the convent, whose names were 
written in full. 

“ What think you of this, my lords ? ” exclaimed the 
Bruce joyously, as exultingly he threw the packet in the 
midst of them. “Alan, my noble Alan, the day that gives 
thee and thy mother back to Robert’s court will be a joy 
to Scotland, and shall give thee liberty,” he continued, ad- 
dressing the prisoner. 

“But Sir Alan — where is Sir Alan?” repeated many 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


507 


eager voices ; “ the scrawl speaks of him as in life, but says 
not where. An he be still in prison, methinks Buchan’s re- 
cantation is somewhat unsatisfactory ; the wily traitor 
knows he is safe in making this avowal : his son cannot seek 
your grace’s favor.” 

“ Think you so, my good lords ? ” and there was a pecul- 
iarly arch expression in the Bruce’s smile. "Well, well; 
time may unravel this even as so many other marvellous 
events. Who would have dreamed ten years ago, the hunted, 
persecuted exile, without a bed whereon to rest his weary 
limbs, a roof to guard him from the pitiless storm, should 
ride triumphant o’er a field like this, compel e’en England’s 
king to fly, her bravest nobles lying at his feet? think of 
these things, and marvel at naught which may befall. Ha ! 
a horn — my Douglas. Quick, quick! bring him hither; let 
the prisoner be removed to all honorable keeping.” 

The entrance of the Douglas prevented further notice of 
Buchan’s important missive just at that time. The king 
received him with unfeigned delight, rejoicing yet more in 
the brilliant success which gave him a yet nearer title to his 
affection than even the extraordinary skill and courage he 
had displayed. The young nobleman gave an animated ac- 
count of his pursuit of the king, who several times had es- 
caped capture almost by a miracle; he had followed him 
as far as Dunbar, whose governor, the Earl of March, had 
given him refuge. 

“ ’Tis well ; we have gained glory enough, my Douglas,” 
was the king’s reply. “ We fought alone for peace and free- 
dom; and these obtained, we shall not rest the harder for 
Edward’s liberty. But the young Earl of Gloucester, hast 
thou seen him? his fate we cannot learn; Heaven grant it 
be life and freedom ! ” 

Various suggestions answered this observation, but al- 
ready we have lingered too long in the royal pavilion, and 
must hasten to other actors in our drama, whose fate de- 
pends upon its close. 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 

The day following the battle dawned on a busy and 
varied scene; the soldiers were busy in clearing the field of 
the dead, in the melancholy task of military burial, ren- 
33 


508 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


dered perhaps less painful in its details by the grateful per- 
ception how few had fallen on their side, compared to their 
foes. The search for the young Earl of Gloucester was at 
length successful, and with bitter sorrow King Robert de- 
sired the body to be conveyed in all honor to the convent of 
St. Ninian, there to lie in state till his funeral could be 
conducted with the ceremonies due to his rank and that 
vivid remembrance of his noble father which the Bruce still 
so fondly entertained; messengers were also dispatched to 
the convent of St. Mary, headed by the Earl of Lennox, to 
whose tender sympathy the king intrusted the painful task 
of informing the Princess Joan of the fate of her son, and 
implore her to return with him to superintend the last mel- 
ancholy duties to the noble dead. The convent of St. El- 
man offered her a safe and honorable retreat till this was 
done, and then she was at perfect liberty to return to Eng- 
land, or remain in Scotland, as the Bruce’s most loved and 
honored friend. This duty of chivalry accomplished, the 
king was at liberty to receive the surrender of the castle of 
Stirling from the hands of Sir Philip de Mowbray, who, un- 
armed and bareheaded, bearing the keys in his hand, and 
followed by his principal knights and officers, was mar- 
shalled into the king’s pavilion, and in the presence of all 
Scotland’s nobles and their knightly prisoners, on his 
knee, laid the keys at the Bruce’s feet, surrendered himself 
and all the English within the castle lawful prisoners, and 
acknowledged him at once conqueror and Scotland’s legal 
sovereign. 

“ Sir Amiot of the Branch, we commit these precious 
keys to thy charge, and hail thee seneschal of Stirling, and 
liberator of its prisoners, an honor fairly and nobly won, 
alike by thy foresight and valor made thine own,” was the 
king’s frank address, as he placed the keys with his own 
royal hand into that of .his young follower, who, clothed 
with more than usual richness, though he still wore his 
mask, was standing by his side, seemingly so calm and full 
of thought as usual, that Edward Bruce had tormented him 
with raillery on his insensibility, declaring he did not de- 
serve to receive his prize. “ Earnestly, we trust,” the king 
continued, “ that this reward may give thee yet something 
more than honor, and thou mayest find amid those prisoners 
thy prudent words made ours, that one on whom so much 
depends. A brief hour hence we take possession, and trust 
to find an unmasked seneschal will give us welcome.” Sir 
Amiot bent his lips to his sovereign’s outstretched hand, and 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


509 


fixed his large dark eyes upon him in eloquent reply. 
“ Young knights who so gallantly struggled for this reward, 
and whose failure gives ye no shadow of shame, attend Sir 
Amiot ; we wait but to see the banner of Scotland float from 
the tower, and will instantly march onward.” 

A joyful shout burst from the youthful knights as on 
they went, the broad standard of Scotland in the midst of 
them, and pennons and penconelles glittering from the 
spearheads in varied array, the torn and sullied banner of 
St. Edward waved exultingly by Fitz-Alan. On they went, 
the silver clarion and deeper trumpet pouring forth glad 
sounds of triumph. The drawbridge was thrown down, 
portcullis up and oaken doors flung back, and Stirling was 
in very truth their own. Scottish prisoners of every rank 
and every grade were assembled in the courts, and pressed 
round them, many of them with sobs and tears calling them 
their liberators, their friends, and beseeching blessings on 
the Bruce’s head. The warriors flung themselves from their 
horses, recognizing many as long-lost companions in arms, 
friends they had deemed were slain. Sir Amiot alone stood 
aloof, unknowing and unknown ; he could not bear to 
abridge that scene, and ere a free passage was obtained to 
permit his ascent to the banner turret, the time for the 
king’s arrival was rapidly approaching. A ringing shout 
from every man below, caught up and repeated by every sol- 
dier on the plain of Bannock, and echoed and re-echoed again 
and yet again, proclaimed the raising of the standard, the 
standard of Scotland’s freedom, the sovereignty of Bruce. 
Gallantly stood forth Sir Amiot’s stately form, as uprooting 
the flag of England, he held it aloft one moment in the sight 
of all, then flung it from the tower to the court below, while 
the flourish of a hundred trumpets swelled forth his tri- 
umph. A troop of magnificently-attired knights, on splen- 
did chargers, were instantly visible, leaving the field in 
front of the castle, and Sir Amiot hastened from the turret 
in search of the prisoners of rank, none of whom had as yet 
been visible. He knew not the name or rank of any save of 
one, and now that the vow of years was fulfilled, the goal 
obtained, his heart shrunk forebodingly within itself, as if 
it were impossible, wholly impossible he should indeed gaze 
upon that face and list that voice again. How might he 
prepare her for that meeting — would she know him — believe 
his identity ? oh, the agonizing doubts and fears of that mo- 
ment, which one effort of volition might dispel, and yet for 
which he had no power. Had the loss of blood of the pre- 


510 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


ceding day so utterly prostrated him, to make him tremble 
thus? where was his manhood? He struggled with him- 
self ; he paced the gallery to conquer emotion ere he entered 
that hall of audience where the prisoners waited their liber- 
ators; at that moment Walter Fitz-Alan bounded toward 
him, full of excitement. 

“ Amiot, Amiot, there is the loveliest vision in this castle 
I ever set eyes upon, thou hast never seen the like. She 
came upon me like a spirit, so full of grace and life, and 
with a face — the sun has never looked on such another! 
Who is she — what is she? — an she be thy unknown love, 
Amiot, I will go hang myself in despair.” 

“ Ho need of that, my fiery Walter; why thou art all but 
deranged already. What is there so marvellous in a beauti- 
ful face? I seek not her; but tell me, tell me, Walter, an 
thou lovest me, the — the Countess of Buchan — hast seen 
her ? Is she here — is she well ? ” he laid his trembling 
hand on the young man’s arm, and spoke in such a tone 
of emotion, Fitz-Alan was for the moment completely so- 
bered, even to the exclusion of surprise. 

“ The Countess of Buchan — is she the object of thy vow? 
who could have believed it? I have seen her; she is well, 
noble, glorious as eight years ago, save — nay, but Amiot, 
good friend, bear up, see her thyself, and set all doubts at 
rest. Thou surely art more badly w r ounded than we 
dreamed of.” 

“No, no, I am weakened in mind not body, Walter; it 
was not thus I thought to meet her. Come, we will go 
together.” 

He put his arm within Fitz-Alan’s, and, struggling for 
calmness, entered the audience hall. There were three or 
four female figures at the further end, and one of them in- 
stantly came forward. 

“ Another of our gallant deliverers ! he is indeed most 
welcome,” was her greeting, in tones that brought Sir Amiot 
instantly on his knee, and he doffed his cap and bowed his 
head, without once looking on her face, for he felt if he had 
he must have given way. “ Methinks, young sir, in the 
convent of Our Lady of Mount Carmel we met before ; thy 
valor rescued us from outrage.” 

“ And truly, lady, by him is gained thy present freedom,” 
interposed Walter Fitz-Alan, eagerly; “for his foresight 
made the ransomless liberation of the prisoners one of the 
conditions of Sir Philip de Mowbray’s journey to London 
in behalf of Stirling. King Robert hails him seneschal of 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


511 


Stirling, deliverer of its prisoners; I pray thee look upon 
him thus.” 

“ And who is this valiant knight — hath he no name ? I 
pray thee, gallant sir, say unto whom Isabella of Buchan is 
indebted for this blessed day; who gives her back to Scot- 
land and to freedom ? ” 

“ One who five years hath sought it,” lady, replied the 
young knight, raising his head, and gazing on her expressive 
face, while his voice strangely and painfully quivered; 
“ one, whose duty it had been to do so, had there been no 
deep love, no glory in the deed. Lady is there none, think- 
est thou, to whom thy liberty, thy joy, could be the first 
grand object of a life — none to whom for thy freedom e’en 
death were welcome ? Oh, speak.” 

“ There was but one,” replied the countess, fearfully agi- 
tated ; “ but one whose love for Isabella could lead him on 
to this — but one, and he — oh, wherefore shouldst thou speak 
this ? I have no son.” 

“ Might it not be that the tale they told was false ; 
that Alan lives, though nameless — hidden even from his 
friends, till his mother’s worth might be reflected upon him, 
and vouch his truth. Oh, do not sink now; mother, my 
noble mother, live, live, to look upon, to bless thy child ! ” 

Paler and paler, till her very lips became white as marble, 
the countenance of the countess had become, while her hand 
convulsively grasped his shoulder, and her whole frame 
shook as an aspen; the knight had dashed his mask and 
plumed cap aside, had flung his arms convulsively around 
her knees, and with one long look of irrepressible love upon 
her face, had buried his head in the folds of her robe, and 
that long pent-up emotion broke forth in choking sobs. 

“ Alan, Alan ! have I a son — did he say Alan lives ? God 
of mercy, let this be no dream! Look up, look up once 
again — ’twas thus I saw him last : oh, what have been these 
long years of misery? My child, my child, speak, tell me I 
am not mad! No, no, that face, that glorious face — thou 
art mine own ! Oh, God of mercy, thou hast given me back 
my child ! ” 

She had lifted his head as she spoke, she had put back the 
long clustering hair, gazing on those beautiful features, 
with a look of such fearful wildness, such intense inquiry, 
Fitz-Alan trembled for her reason. Her voice had become 
more and more the accent of delirium, until, as with an al- 
most prostrating effort, she conquered it, and seemed com- 
pelling herself to calmness ; and then, as Alan, in answer to 


512 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


her agonized appeal, “ Speak, tell me I am not mad,” repeat- 
ed that single word “ Mother,” checking his own emotion to 
support her, the tightly-drawn brain gave way, and with a 
burst of passionate tears she sunk upon his bosom, folding 
her arms around him, murmuring his name, conscious only 
she gazed upon her son. 

Time passed, how much neither of those long-separated 
ones might know. There had been a trumpet sounded with- 
out, a burst of shouting triumph, of loyal acclaim, a tramp 
of many feet, alike in the courtyards and the castle hall. 
They had been left comparatively alone, for Fitz-Alan had 
obeyed that trumpet sound, and the other inmates of the 
chamber had kept far aloof, feeling the emotions of that 
mother and son were far too sacred to be looked upon; but 
they knew nothing of all these things ; they felt nothing but 
that they were clasped to each other’s hearts, that tears were 
mingling; that there was such deep joy dawning for Isa- 
bella, her brain might scarce bear the change; quivering 
and trembling beneath it, as the eye, long accustomed to the 
darkness, shrinks back almost in pain from the dazzling 
flash of light by which it is dispelled. Alan felt not this; 
he only knew he could lay his aching head upon her breast, 
and feel that there was on earth one who loved him, one 
whom he might love, whose tenderness might quench the 
burning agony that raged within. A well-known voice 
aroused them, a kindly arm unclasped the trembling yet con- 
vulsive hold of Alan from his mother’s drooping form, and 
gently bade her wake to joy and freedom. 

“ Mo, no, we will not homage, lady; thou hast enough to 
feel, to see. The Bruce needs not the knee of Isabella to 
proclaim him sovereign,” exclaimed Bobert, kindly; and 
startled into consciousness by his voice, both the countess 
and her son found themselves surrounded by the sovereign 
and his knights ; the former would have knelt, but was effec- 
tually prevented. 

“ We would rather beseech thee to forget all concerning 
us, save that we are a faithful friend, to whom the thought 
of the misery thy loyalty to us hath called down on thee, 
hath ever been a thought of pain, which we would long ere 
this have banished, had Heaven permitted us by the sword’s 
point to gain thy freedom. We dreamed not till this morn- 
ing this blessing awaited us, that midst the prisoners of 
Stirling was the Countess de Buchan, or perchance we had 
scarce waited so patiently for Edward’s coming.” 

“ There is dearer blessing in store for thee, my gra- 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


513 


cious liege,” returned the countess, restored by a strong 
effort to her usual self-possession, and even at that moment 
forgetting all personal feeling to pour into the Bruce’s heart 
a portion of her own deep joy. “ Look yonder, my sover- 
eign, seest thou not one whose freedom and whose presence 
are dearer, more precious yet ? ” 

The crowd had unconsciously divided to permit the 
entrance among them of that same lovely girl whose beauty 
had so bewildered Fitz-Alan, and who now stood among 
those warrior forms, three or four yards from the king, 
gazing upon him with an expression of such reverence, ad- 
miration, love, that every eye turned for the moment from 
Alan of Buchan to rest on her. The Bruce looked toward 
her, started, stood doubtful, but, ere the doubt was solved, 
the fair girl had bounded forward, murmuring, “ Father, 
hast forgotten thy little Marjory?” and the sovereign had 
folded his daughter to his warrior heart. 

With arms folded on his bosom, a countenance deadly 
pale, a mien yet more loftily erect, Alan of Buchan stood by 
his mother’s side, almost concealed by drooping tapestry, as 
his fellow-knights and nobles thronged round the countess 
to pay her the respectful homage her sufferings in the 
Bruce’s cause so well deserved. He could not come for- 
ward; even at that moment the remembrance of the detes- 
tation in which his whole line was so naturally regarded by 
the faithful followers of the Bruce was on his heart, bowing 
it to the dust; he had fought, had bled for his king, had 
saved his life, but what mattered these things? he was a 
Comyn still, and not till the sovereign’s own voice was 
heard in eager inquiry, “ Alan, where is my noble Alan — 
why does he shun me ? ” had he courage to bound forward, 
and prostrate himself at Kobert’s feet. 

“ Here at thy feet, my liege. Oh, take not the love thou 
didst vouchsafe to the nameless Amiot from him who bears 
a traitor’s name. Let me but feel I have still a claim upon 
my sovereign’s love, that the years of faithful service, as an 
unknown, nameless adventurer, have not been all in vain. 
The dark mystery around me is solved; for my mother’s 
sake, accept my homage still.” 

“ Hay, ask that of the prejudiced, tyrannical fool of 
England, not of the noble Robert, who ever loved thee, Alan, 
e’en when the whole world believed thee traitor,” exclaimed 
the impetuous Edward, rushing to the kneeling knight ere 
the king could reply, raising and embracing him. “ I have 
done thee foul wrong, wounded thy too sensitive heart again 


514 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


and again; but who could suppose the solitary Amiot, sans 
nom , sans parens , concealed a being once so lamented, and 
then so misdoubted, as Alan of Buchan ? Who could dream 
it was a mother’s freedom thou didst so nobly, so devotedly 
seek? though, by my faith, now the mystery’s solved, we 
were all sorry fools, I take it, not to solve it before. Well, 
well, the past is the past, and all that Edward Bruce may 
do is to acknowledge and deplore his injury, and crave thy 
pardon.” 

“ And I, and I, and I,” repeated several voices ; and one 
by one the nobles of Scotland pressed eagerly forward to 
clasp the young knight’s hand, to beseech his friendship, to 
assure him name, ancestry, all were forgotten, all, save that 
he was the son of Isabella, the noble patriot, the gallant 
knight, the devoted follower of the Bruce. 

Affected beyond all power of speech, there was such a 
varying of colour on Alan’s cheek, that both the Bruce and 
his mother felt alarmed, suspecting the immense exertions 
of the previous day, or some secret cause, had undermined 
that health more than was outwardly visible. 

“ And what may thy sovereign add, my Alan ? ” he said, 
when the noisy congratulations of Sir Alan’s younger com- 
panions permitted him to speak ; “ what, save that we will 
find some nobler name for thee than that thou bearest now; 
a name unstained as thine own honor, thy noble mother’s 
fame. Thy mystery was solved yestere’en to us,” he added, 
with a smile, “ though the wits of our good brother and 
gallant knights were somewhat more obtuse. Thou lookest 
wondrous puzzled, gentle sir, and perchance will be yet more 
so. See here, a father’s hand hath done thee justice, tardy 
though it be.” 

Alan glanced over the paper the king presented. His 
cheek flushed, his eye glistened; he saw nothing regarding 
himself, only one sentence printed itself on his heart, and 
flinging his arms around his mother, he murmured forth, 
“ Mother, my own mother ! even by him thy worth acknowl- 
edged, thy spotless name proclaimed. Oh, were this blessed 
moment my last, thine Alan hath not lived in vain.” 

We may not linger further on this scene, important 
though it be. Much there was to be explained, much which 
not alone the Countess Isabella yearned to hear, but for 
which the king and his nobles all loudly called ; how he had 
escaped from imprisonment, death, the origin of his vow, 
why he had kept it so rigidly, and numerous other questions 
relative to Alan, were asked and answered; and then there 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


515 


was much for Robert to hear from his own sweet girl, from 
whose beloved form his arm had never moved, even when 
addressing and listening to Alan, and on whose lovely, inno- 
cent face, his eye ever turned and turned again, as the eye 
of the weary and the thirsty traveller of the desert is fasci- 
nated to the distant fount, however other objects may pleas- 
antly intervene and seek to turn it thence. He had to 
learn, and gladly she told him, that Lady Mowbray, under 
whose charge she and her mother had been some time in 
England, had so dearly loved her company, that on Sir 
Philip’s sending for her to Stirling, where he was governor, 
she had prevailed on the king to permit the princess ac- 
companying her, and the queen, after a severe struggle, had 
consented to part with her child, to deprive her tedious 
imprisonment of its only comfort, hoping that some fortu- 
nate chance might restore her Marjory to the king, her 
father, sooner than could be if she remained in England. 

“ My noble, unselfish Margaret, and thy tender wish is 
fulfilled,” responded the king, straining the princess again 
and again to his bosom ; “ and thou shalt speedily rejoin us. 
Hot alone a kingdom have I regained, but treasures dearer 
yet — my wife and child.” 

While these momentous events were taking place in 
Stirling Castle, the convent of St. Hinian had been the 
scene of feelings perhaps equally intense. Escorted by the 
Earl of Lennox and J ames of Douglas — whose ardent long- 
ings for an interview with his well and honorably-won Iso- 
line had been painfully damped, by the assurance of the 
abbess that she was really too much indisposed to see him 
so early in the morning, as he had entreated — the Princess 
Joan, Countess of Gloucester, had arrived, and been received 
with all the deference her rank demanded, all the true heart- 
felt sympathy her loss had claimed. A brief while she had 
passed alone beside the body of her child ; her agonized fore- 
bodings all were realized, and that she had foreboded this 
could not assuage its pang. The first anguish of that moth- 
er’s heart no eye had witnessed, and when she left that room 
of death, the touching dignity of silent, lasting grief alone 
was visible. She sate with the abbess, sometimes silent, 
sometimes speaking of the lost, when lightly and suddenly, 
as usual, Agnes stood before them. 

“ They have won, they have won ! ” she said, putting her 
arms caressingly about the abbess’s neck. “ Said I not Scot- 
land would be free — Robert should be glorious? Oh, he 
will need Agnes and her own faithful lover no more, and so 


516 


THE DAYS OF BKUCE. 


he hath gone up, up, where I may not see him ; but I know 
I shall go to him soon, he hath whispered it in his own sweet 
voice. Ha ! who is that ? ” she interrupted herself, and her 
eye fixed itself on the face of the Princess Joan with such 
intensity, the orb seemed almost glazed. She passed her 
hand over her brow, as if there was a pressure of pain, and 
every feature gradually contracted, as if under some power- 
ful effort of mind. “ Who is that ? I should know the face 
if I had memory. Why does it conjure up such horrible 
fancies, that strange awful dream, which sometimes is so 
clear I believe it must be reality? yet how can it be, when 
he was never on earth? They never could do to him the 
horrible things I saw. Lady, sweet lady, in mercy tell me 
who thou art ! ” 

“ Alas ! poor sufferer, I fear me thou hast all too vivid a 
remembrance,” replied the princess, at once recollecting 
Agnes, and divining her affliction and its cause. “ Do not 
look upon me thus, my child; ask not a name that must 
bring with it but memories of sorrow. Look on me only as 
a friend who loved thee, dearest.” 

“ Loved me ! Where didst thou know me ? Memories — 
I have no memory. But tell me, oh, tell me, who thou art. 
The cloud is gathering darker; Nigel, Nigel, let it not de- 
scend. Who art thou ? ” 

Terrified at the increasing wildness of look and tone, 
though trembling at the effect the sound of her name might 
produce, the princess tenderly replied : 

“ My name is Joan, sweet girl, the Dame of Gloucester.” 

“ Gloucester, the Dame of Gloucester ! — what hath that 
name to do with me? Why should it bring such agony? 
What are these forms that throng upon me? they press, 
they hem me round. Oh, give me way, let me go to him — 
it is my husband ! ” and with a wild shriek of horror, the 
unhappy girl dropped senseless on the ground. 

It was long ere they could restore her to life, to con- 
sciousness of outward things; and longer still ere she had 
strength to raise herself from the couch where they had laid 
her, to raise her hand to her aching brow, to stand erect; 
but the placid smile of infancy returned, and she was calm, 
gentle, caressing as her wont, without one trace of the 
fearful paroxysm that had thus prostrated her, save the fast 
decay of frame. 

The Lady Isoline sate alone within her chamber, her 
elbow rested on a table near, one hand supporting her head, 
while the other hung by her side, her whole position present- 


THE DAYS OF BKUCE. 


517 


ing in its repose that utter abandonent of expression which 
we sometimes see in a marble statue, and which, without the 
aid of either sound or coloring, fills the heart and eye with 
silent sympathizing tears. 

The Lord of Douglas had just left her, so full of his own 
happiness, his own deep love, that he could not be conscious 
of alloy. He knew, had long known his love was not re- 
turned with the warmth he gave, and therefore that his rap- 
turous expressions of affection, gratitude, devotion met with 
but gentle, quiet, dignified replies had no power to quench 
that joy; he looked to a life to gain him the love he longed 
for, to deeds of such unobtruding worship, which his knowl- 
edge of her character inspired, at length to obtain him some- 
what more than esteem, and till then his own love, the con- 
sciousness she was his own, was all-sufficient for the com- 
pletion of individual joy. Not a dream, a thought that her 
heart was preoccupied had ever entered his soul; and, de- 
spite all her resolutions, all her wishes, she could not in that 
interview tell him. She thought to have seen the supposed 
Sir Amiot ere she and Douglas met, to have that strange 
mystery all dissolved, his name and rank acknowledged, and 
in them to find some sufficient cause for this avowal; for 
still, aye, though hour after hour passed and he came not, 
made no effort to seek her, still she trusted , would not be- 
lieve him false, though eye and ear and memory and rea- 
son’s self, all rose up to crush that trust, to tell her loudly 
she clasped a shadow. How passed that dreadful interview 
with Douglas, what she had said she scarcely knew, save that 
she had made no profession of love, had given him no word 
to lead him to believe she felt for him more than she had 
ever said, and there was some faint comfort in that thought. 
But now that he had left her, the utter prostration of men- 
tal strength was again upon her, bowing her heart with a 
load of suffering as impossible to be defined as to be con- 
quered. What did she seek? what good to see Sir Amiot 
again, to hear his lips solve the mystery around him? how 
would that avail her and give her back to joy? She might 
have asked herself these questions and many more, but an- 
swers came there none; and it was something peculiarly 
touching to see that high-born maiden, whose heart had ever 
seemed too proud and yet too light, too full of effervescence 
to retain the shade of sorrow, drooping thus ; her very atti- 
tude denoting utter, utter hopelessness. How long she re- 
mained in this position, how long it was since Douglas had 
left her, she was wholly unconscious, as also that an attend- 


518 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


ant had entered, asked some question, and been answered by 
an assenting sign. A deep sigh aroused her, a sigh so respon- 
sive to her own thought at the moment it sounded, that it 
fairly startled her into hastily raising her eyes, and looking 
inquiringly around her. About a yard from the door of her 
apartment, over which the tapestry had again closely fallen, 
as if either bodily or mental powers had failed to the utter 
prevention of his further advance, stood a tall, martial 
figure, whose rich and graceful attire could not conceal that 
the limbs were painfully enfeebled ; his head was uncovered, 
his fair face, pale as death, but beautiful even in its suffer- 
ing, fully exposed to view; his raven hair pushed from his 
marble brow, and falling in long curls on either side, ren- 
dering perhaps that ashy paleness more painfully striking. 
Isoline cast one doubting glance; could she be mistaken in 
that form, those eyes? though the face was more beautiful 
than her wildest dreams had pictured. But if it were him, 
why did he not approach her — why stand thus, distant, re- 
served, as had been so long his wont? Forgetting her situa- 
tion, her engagement, her dignity, everything but that him 
she loved was before her, Isoline sprung toward him. 

“ Amiot, Amiot, thou art come at length ! ” she wildly 
cried. “ Oh, why not before ? ” 

“ IT ot before ! Couldst thou think of me, wish for me, 
now — now, when thou must deem me perjured, false? Lady, 
sweet lady, oh, do not speak to me thus gently ; better harsh- 
ly, better proudly — for oh, have I not lost thee ? ” he sunk 
on his knee before her, clasping her robe with both hands, 
and raising to hers his speaking eyes. 

“ And yet I trust thee — yet I know thou art not, hast 
not played me false ! Amiot, I had not loved thee could my 
mind thus waver, sentence thee without a hearing; but I 
forget what I am, forget that thou, thou hast struggled for 
me, and in vain.” Her voice grew more and more faltering, 
and, mocking every effort at control, she sunk on the nearest 
seat, and burst into a passion of tears. 

Sir Alan sprung to her side, almost as much agitated as 
herself; he threw his arm around her, but so respectfully, 
Douglas himself had scarce condemned the action. He 
spoke to her gently, soothingly, recalled to his own noble 
self by the suffering of one beloved. 

“ In very truth this is sad, foolish weakness, Amiot ; I 
know not myself; but it is passed now, and I am Isoline 
again. Sit thee beside me, and tell me all thou hast come 
here to tell; first, who art thou? — ’Tis strange my woman 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


519 


curiosity hath not asked this before, but truly I have either 
dreamed of such a face or seen it once before.” So she 
spoke, even while her whole frame trembled with the vio- 
lence of emotion, while a sensation of sickly faintness was 
upon her, while the large tears stood on the silken lashes, 
giving new softened beauty to her features, despite the quiv- 
ering smile upon her lips. 

“ Thou hast seen it, Isoline. Perchance, if I tell thee to 
whose weal, whose liberty, my life was vowed, thou wilt 
scarce give my lips the painful task to speak a name which 
must be hateful to a daughter of the Bruce. Men said it 
was to a bride or a betrothed my life was pledged. I heard 
them at first unheedingly, carelessly, my only desire being 
to conceal effectually my name, which, were the truth 
known, would undoubtedly be discovered; but when I saw 
thee, when other feelings took possession of my soul, I 
longed to contradict the rumor, to tell the whole world my 
heart was free as was my hand; but I dared not, lest I 
should betray more. Isoline, it was a mother’s liberty I 
sought.” 

“ And that mother is Isabella of Buchan, and thou art 
Alan. Oh, fool, fool that I was, not to divine this from the 
first ! ” exclaimed Isoline, in a tone of such bitter self- 
reproach it almost lost Sir Alan his partially regained con- 
trol ; “ thrice-blinded fool, when I pondered again and yet 
again on thy devotedness to our poor afflicted Agnes, striv- 
ing to reconcile it with the tale they breathed of thy be- 
trothment to another; where was my boasted penetration? 
Oh, had I dreamed of this, how changed had been our 
fates ! ” 

“ Wouldst thou, couldst thou still have loved me, Iso- 
line? A Comyn — son of a rebellious, hated, contemned 
race; one stained w T ith attempted regicide, with treachery 
and crime.” 

“ What signified thy race, when him I loved was in him- 
self a host of truth, of honor, loyalty, valor — all that chiv- 
alry claims and woman loves,” answered Isoline, impetuous- 
ly. “ Alan, Alan, how little knowest thou a woman’s heart, 
to dream a name could arm it ’gainst a life ! Ho, no, ’twas 
the foul tale they told, that Alan of Buchan was sworn 
to England, that blunted every faculty and blinded me to 
facts now so palpable ! ” 

“ And thou didst believe that tale ? ” inquired Alan, 
mournfully. 

“ It was not till there were those who told me they had 


520 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


seen thee, Alan, and then I did not hold thee false, but held 
perforce to act the part they told ; and not always I believed 
this, but rather that the first tale I heard was true, and, to 
hide his unnatural crime, Buchan had substituted some 
other in thy stead.” 

“ And thy penetration there told thee truth. It was to 
conceal a supposed crime my unhappy father promulgated a 
falsehood he has now utterly repented and atoned. Listen 
to me, Isoline : my tale is a long one, and now, alas ! may 
avail me nothing: yet thou shalt hear all, though I did not 
think to tell it thus.” He paused, in evident emotion, but 
conquering it with an effort, continued, “ Thou knowest all 
the particulars of my beloved mother’s capture, that she 
was conveyed to Edinburgh, under the horrible impression 
that her patriotism, her devotedness to Scotland and the 
Bruce, had caused the execution of her only son by a father’s 
hand. I too was told this, and the horror of the agony this 
intelligence would occasion her almost caused me to waver 
for a brief interval, and betray the wanderings of my king, 
trusting that, even were this known to his foes, it could 
avail them little, as the three, nay, the four days which had 
intervened would have taken him out of reach of all pursuit. 
But this indecision did not last long; better my mother 
should believe her Alan dead than dishonored, the one were 
a less pang than the other, and I wavered no more. How 
the deceit of my death, even, I believe, to the discovery of 
my dead body, was carried on I am ignorant; but a young 
man of my age and size, one of my father’s personal fol- 
lowers, had fallen in a previous strife, and as they stripped 
me of my clothes, to robe me as a felon, I imagine his body 
was wrapped in them, and thus heightened the deception; 
that, however, is of little moment now. I was dragged 
blindfolded I knew not where, save that we traversed many 
miles of rugged land and crossed the waves, and when my 
fetters were loosed and sight restored, I found myself in a 
rude fort, on a solitary rock, with the broad ocean rolling 
and tumbling around me on all sides, save the south, where 
the bleak, bare, rugged shores of Caithness mingle with the 
clouds. I was but a boy; but, oh, Isoline, not the fuller, 
more perfected consciousness of manhood could have felt 
more keenly, more bitterly the horrors of this captivity, 
worse a thousand times than death. Separated as by death 
from all I loved, cut off from every dream of hope, of young 
ambition, burning with desire to strive for my country and 
my king, to signalize myself as my mother’s son, and wash 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


521 


away, through my exertions, the stain upon my race — every 
hope was gone. I was surrounded by rude, almost savage 
forms, whose very language I could scarcely understand, 
and whose visages were hard as the rock they peopled, and 
whose hearts no more sensible to the agony I endured — 
the wild, vain yearnings for freedom — than the boundless 
ocean roaring round. Once they chained me, with mock- 
ing gibes, to the flag-staff on the tower for three days and 
nights, in punishment for an attempt to fling myself into 
the waves, and kept me fettered and doubly watched from 
that time forward; and temptation was not wanted to add 
its suffering, Isoline. Again, and again there came offers 
of freedom, honor, wealth, if I would but take a solemn oath 
to forswear all allegiance to the Bruce, to join my father in 
his oath of vengeance upon him, and in his fealty to Eng- 
land — a promise of perfect liberty of action in all save this, 
nay, even • communication with my mother. Twice did my 
father himself seek me to make these offers, to threaten se- 
verer, more horrible imprisonment, were I still obstinate; 
and many more times did these fearful temptations come 
through others, with all the insinuation of eloquent oratory, 
persuasive gentleness. I scarce know how I resisted ; but I 
did, God in heaven be praised, I did! Even then, then 
my mother’s image did not desert me ; she came upon me in 
those moments of horror, of trial, more terrible than words 
may speak; her voice breathed in my ear, strengthening me 
in my hours of darkness, and I resisted. They could not 
make me false ! ” 

“ Alan, Alan, in mercy cease ! were we other than we are, 
were that brief vision of bliss realized, and I might love thee, 
oh, I could bear this, glory in thy truth ; but now, now, that 
my soul must root thine image thence, that I must forget — 
forget — God in heaven, tell me not these things, I cannot, 
cannot bear them ! ” and the high-minded girl buried her 
face in her hands, vainly struggling to subdue an emotion 
that shook her whole frame with sobs. 

“ Isoline, dearest, noblest ! I have done, I will not linger 
on these things; perchance ’twere better to have left them 
in their darkness. But to whom should they be divulged, if 
not to thee, who, despite of mystery, of appearances so 
against me — thy very eyes must have condemned me — could 
still trust, still believe I would clear up all? And deem 
not this a stolen interview, ’tis with the king’s consent I am 
here, with his permission that I speak.” 

“ How ? ” interrupted Isoline, hastily. 


522 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


“ Yes, Isoline, but now I left him, pouring into his kind- 
ly ear enough for him to wring my hand and wish that 
Douglas had been other than my rival; that things had 
chanced other than they are; to bid me seek thee this once, 
and tell thee all which thy generous heart hath made thy 
due, and then — then to bid thee, as Isoline Campbell, fare- 
well forever — ’twas better for us both.” 

“ Ha ! said he so ? suspects he aught concerning me — 
didst say aught of me ? ” hurriedly inquired Isoline, re- 
moving her hands from her face, on which a vivid flush had 
spread. 

“ What might I say ? boast that, though Douglas had 
thine hand, I had thy noble heart; that thou hadst so hon- 
ored me beyond my deserts as to half own thy love — say this, 
when thou wert lost to me ? no, lady, no. He taxed me with 
my sadness, that now a mother was restored, all of mystery 
solved, how might I grieve? and I told him wherefore, Iso- 
line — that madly, wildly, I had dared to love — in secret love, 
though not in secret woo ; and had not a closer duty, though, 
alas! not dearer love, commanded a mother’s freedom be- 
fore all personal joy, I not alone had loved but I had won 
thee.” 

“ And he, King Robert ? ” 

“ Said much in my favor that it boots not to repeat ; 
seemed on the point of asking a question — for thy name was 
trembling on his lips — then checked himself, and wished the 
mystery around me had been solved before, and granted my 
request to see thee, and myself explain that mystery with- 
out a moment’s pause. Thou art glad he so far trusted me, 
sweet one; pardon me, lady, thine eye shineth brighter.” 

“ Do not heed me — do not seek yet to read my thoughts ; 
and oh, Alan, call me Isoline — Isoline still; when the wife 
of Douglas,” she shuddered, “ it will be time for that cold 
word lady. Tell me of thyself,” she continued, hurriedly, as 
fearing she had said too much ; “ how couldst thou escape 
from thy dreary prison — how elude their ever-watchful 
eyes ? ” 

“ I had been there now, perchance,” he answered, “ had 
not a merciful Providence interposed to save me, through 
the person of my foster-father, who in his deep love had 
sworn to discover my true fate, and rescue me if living. 
To do this he entered the service of the earl, my father, who, 
from his long absence and utter desertion of his Scottish 
fiefs, had wholly forgotten his person, a forgetfulness my 
faithful Cornac was very careful not to disturb. He be- 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


523 


came so useful to his master, so adapted himself to his ca- 
prices, that gradually reserve gave way, and, after a trial of 
his fidelity for eighteen weary months, he intrusted him 
with the secret of my existence, his desires that I should em- 
brace the service of Edward, acknowledging that there were 
strange feelings busy at his heart whenever he thought of 
me, which made him yearn for my submission, that he 
might love me; but despite of this, if I would not take the 
oath he demanded, then I might die, he cared not. Cornac 
heard him attentively, and promised his best assistance. 
Old and wary, Cornac effectually concealed from my father 
his overpowering delight at the intelligence of my existence ; 
but when, after two years of fearful trial, he held me to his 
bosom, the tears he shed were all-sufficient evidence of his 
previous suffering and present joy. Still he had a weary 
task to perform; made seneschal and governor of the islet 
tower, a stranger to the habits of the rude inhabitants, he 
knew he must proceed cautiously. As for me, the bare men- 
tion of freedom unshackled by conditions threw me into 
such a state of excitement, that reduced, exhausted as I was, 
fever followed, and brought me to the very brink of the 
grave. But this was rather a matter of rejoicing than of sor- 
row to Cornac, for such was what he wanted. He knew he 
had sufficient of the leech’s art to cure my bodily ailment, 
but he made no attempt to do so publicly, but reported I was 
dying of an incurable disease, and gave all who chose free 
access to me, that they might see there was no falsehood. 
But I need not linger on this ; suffice it, that messengers one 
after another were dispatched to my father, each with more 
alarming reports of my danger and approaching dissolution. 
This was a device of my faithful Cornac, to have the sole 
charge of me to himself, and his plan succeeded, for now 
my liberty and life were safe in his sole keeping. At night- 
fall he conveyed me to the mainland, providing for my still 
weak state of health; he tarried not an hour, but hastened, 
as he said, to report my death himself; and so well did he 
succeed, that my father not only believed the tale, but be- 
came gradually tortured with remorse that my cruel captiv- 
ity had caused my death, and that he in consequence was 
my murderer. With health renewed, I joined the armies 
of the King of Norway, but that was not struggling for 
Scotland; my heart was filled with an intense yearning 
again to fight under my sovereign’s banner, and regain my 
mother’s freedom. At length, after a year spent abroad, 
Cornac consented to my returning to Scotland, on condition 
34 


524 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


that I would solemnly swear not to divulge my name or 
identity until I could do so in perfect safety, for he natu- 
rally feared the vengeance of my father, should the deceit 
which had been practised upon him be discovered. My only 
wish then was to devote myself to my loved and injured 
mother ; I had already, in my vigil at arms, before receiving 
knighthood from my sovereign’s hand, taken a solemn oath 
to devote my whole life to her happiness, to rescue her from 
danger or imprisonment, and it was therefore without a 
moment’s hesitation I pledged myself to all, nay, more than 
he desired. I told him I would conceal my features from 
every eye, divulge my name to none, until my mother’s lib- 
erty was gained, her name cleared from the faintest breath 
of calumny. I thought not of the difficulties that would at- 
tend the adherence to my vow; the spirit of chivalry was 
upon me, my heart burned to avenge my mother’s wrongs, 
to bind myself irrevocably to her, and flinging myself be- 
fore an altar of the Virgin, I took the vow which this day 
dissolves. 

“ On joining the Bruce, another and far more powerful 
incentive than my personal safety, urged me to strict con- 
cealment. I was a Comyn; every week, every month, 
proved more and more the detestation in which that line 
was held. Would I, could I acknowledge myself one of a 
race vowed to the destruction of the Bruce? no; it was 
enough to feel I was one, that I bore a name synonymous 
with everything dishonorable, disloyal, murderous — aye, 
murderous, for was not the secret and open hand of the 
Comyn ever armed against the Bruce ? I had at first 
thought to proclaim whose liberty I sought; but speedily 
the conviction that in proclaiming this I should undoubt- 
edly excite suspicion concerning my own name arrested me, 
and I felt myself compelled to darken yet further the mys- 
tery around me. On my first arrival in Scotland, the sensa- 
tion of liberty, of treading my own land, of having the free, 
unshackled power to raise my sword for Scotland and my 
mother, occasioned emotions of exhilarating buoyancy, of 
bliss unlike anything I had ever experienced before. Thou 
lookest inquiringly; oh, long before I looked on thee, that 
strange buoyancy had fled. I was alone ; merciful Heaven, 
what did not that word comprise ? The dishonor of my race 
pressed upon me, crushing me to the dust, and then came 
the foul rumor that Alan of Buchan was not dead, but false. 
I, I who had endured such horrible agony to preserve my 
loyalty to my king — my very brain reeled — and men be- 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


525 . 


lieved the foul tale; I had no power to undeceive them, for 
my vow was registered in heaven, my mother’s freedom 
mocked my efforts, and darker and darker grew my onward 
path. Fears, perchance groundless, unfounded, grew upon 
me. I had obtained that which I had so yearned for, the 
confidence, the regard of my sovereign, the friendship of 
Scotland’s patriots, but they knew not I was a Comyn; if 
they had, would they not have spurned me, hated me. I 
could not speak these fears, and so they obtained shape and 
coloring, and hemmed me in with wretchedness; and then 
I beheld thee, and thy voice was ever kind, thy look full of 
that voiceless sympathy my spirit longed for. Isoline, too 
soon I saw the precipice on which I stood; I loved thee, I, 
a poor adventurer, a Comyn, yet I dared to love a daughter 
of the Bruce. I saw thee surrounded by the bravest, noblest, 
best — what right had I to mingle with them ? ” 

“ What right ? the right of honor, valor, truth,” inter- 
posed Isoline, turning her full dark eyes upon him, and 
speaking with dignity, though sadly. “ Alan, acting as 
thou wert the part of a patriot subject’s son, in what could 
the world cast shame on thee? thine own heart should have 
been thy safest judge, that could but approve.” 

“ Lady, it should ; but thy gentle heart dreams not of 
the bitter agony of bearing a name condemned to detesta- 
tion, branded with hate and scorn. I loved thee, Isoline, 
yet I asked myself how dared I love — how dared I permit 
a personal feeling to come between me and my vow? to 
think, to dream of happiness when my mother still lan- 
guished in captivity, whence I had sworn to rescue her? I 
shunned thy loved presence; I sought to harden my heart, 
to steel it ’gainst such softening throbs, but I could not, no, 
no, I could not; if thou hadst power over hearts where 
hope and joy alone had resting, what was not thy power 
on one lonely, wretched as myself ? ” he paused, almost con- 
vulsed with emotion, and Isoline could not trust her voice 
in answer. After a brief silence, he continued, more 
calmly : 

“ I looked upon my afflicted sister, and thy gentleness, 
thy fondness, which bound her torn heart to thine, made me 
love thee more. She was the only being with whom I might 
claim affinity; we were alone of our race. I sought to 
make her know me, but the effort failed, and yet I loved 
her more than ever ; and every deed of kindness, every look, 
every word of love from thee to her increased thy power, 
till my heart contained but thine image, beat but at thy 


526 


THE DAYS OF BEUCE. 


voice. They told me the Douglas was thy sovereign’s 
choice, that he would be my husband, and how dared I come 
forward as his rival? If there did come a thrilling whisper 
that thy look was less proud, thy voice less cold to me than 
him, I dared not listen to its voice, for how might I seek thy 
favor without a name, with naught to lay before thee but 
a heart which would have felt it bliss to die for thee? 
how breathe aught of homage, when men said I was be- 
trothed to her whose liberty I sought — when I gathered 
words from thee, betraying thou, too, hadst heard and didst 
believe the tale, and held all words of homage and of love 
but meaningless to thee, disloyal to another, nay, that my 
devotion to my unhappy sister had sunk me in thine esteem, 
as strangely at variance with the suspected origin of my 
vow? Isoline, Isoline, thou didst not know, thou couldst 
not guess the anguish thy words occasioned the evening pre- 
vious to my demanding news of my mother, before the gate 
of Berwick’s guarded citadel; and oh, the intolerable agony 
of that crushed hope! it had sprung up, loaded with such 
sweet flowers, to be withered ere their fragrance was dif- 
fused; and again I struggled to banish the love I bore thee 
as vain, wholly, utterly vain. But why linger on this? I 
heard thy lips proclaim that superior valor might win thy 
hand, I heard thine avowal at the same moment that thou 
hadst but regard, esteem, not love to give, and my heart 
sprung up again. I might win thee still, for the day that 
decided thy fate gave my mother liberty ; burst, and forever, 
the shrouding folds of mystery — thou knowest the rest. 1 
left thee, every sense absorbed in the sweet delicious dream 
that for me thou mightst feel more than cold regard, that 
did I win thee, my name, my rank, should not weigh against 
my claim; and then I heard a second recompense for valor 
had been published, one which would give me the opportu- 
nity of literally fulfilling my vow; for who might dream 
the nameless adventurer, vowed already to a lady’s service, 
could dream of striving for thy hand? I thought to tell 
thee all, my position of agonized indecision, but what would 
that avail me? Thy word had passed to become the bride 
of him who won thee, and wouldst thou, couldst thou annul 
this for me? Ho, I would win both, and won them I should 
had my noble steed not failed — I would have won thee, Iso- 
line; but what avails it now? Merciful Heaven! to know 
— to feel thou lovest me — I scarce knew how much I loved 
before, and yet to lose thee thus — why did I live to say it — 
why live to lose thee ? Better to have died ! ” 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


527 


“ No, Alan, no ! ” and Isoline turned toward him, and 
laid her hands, which, despite every effort, visibly trembled, 
on his arm, detaining him as he started up in agony; “ No, 
no, do not say so; there are other nearer, dearer claimants 
on thy love. Oh, think on the mother for whom thou hast 
dared, hast borne so much, and whose love, whose worth de- 
mands yet more; think of the poor afflicted Agnes, to 
whom, though she knows thee not as a brother, yet thou art 
so dear. Alan, dearest Alan, live for them, for me ! ” 

“ What, for thee ? ” passionately answered the unhappy 
young man. “ How may I think of thee as the loved, the 
happy wife of Douglas ? wilt thou, canst thou wed him ? ” 

“ My word has passed, I cannot recall it, unless he give 
it back,” replied Isoline, with dignity, even though her 
tears were falling fast. “ Alan, leave me — nay, nay, I speak 
not in anger, I need not that reproachful glance; we must 
part, and wherefore lengthen an interview harrowing to us 
both ? Leave me, Alan, and take with thee my earnest pray- 
ers for thy welfare, my fervent sympathy in thy joy of re- 
gaining a mother such as thine. Go, in pity do not linger; 
forget me, save as a true and faithful friend.” 

“ Forget thee!” reiterated Alan. “ Isoline, Isoline, can 
the love of years be banished by a word? But thou art 
right ; why should I linger, when to gaze upon thee thus but 
swells my heart to bursting? King Robert trusted me, I 
will not abuse his trust. God bless thee, keep thee, lady ! ” 
He stood before her a moment erect, seemingly calm, but 
it was only a moment ; the next he had flung himself before 
her, covered the hand he had seized with kisses, and then, 
with an almost inarticulate “ Isoline, dearest Isoline ! ” 
rushed from the room. 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 


The retreating steps of Sir Alan had faded in the dis- 
tance, but still Isoline remained where he had left her, pale, 
mute, motionless as a statue; then, as if nerved by sudden 
resolution, her features relaxed in their painful rigidity, 
though their deadly paleness remained. She sat down, evi- 
dently determined to conquer all appearance of emotion, 
then rung a silver bell beside her; it was answered by an 
attendant. 


528 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


“ Has the Lord J ames of Douglas quitted the convent ? ” 
she inquired, and there was not even the faintest quiver in 
her full rich voice. 

“ He hath but now returned, lady, resolved on waiting 
thy pleasure to admit him again; he did but seek his pavil- 
ion to bring with him the banner of St. Edmund, which he 
tarries to lay at thy feet.” 

“ Tell him I will see him now, nay, that I desire his pres- 
ence,” she answered, and the attendant departed. 

It was not ten minutes after this message was dis- 
patched, that Douglas, radiant in happiness and animation, 
obeyed the summons; but to Isoline it had felt an age of 
suffering, which was so vividly impressed upon her beau- 
tiful features, notwithstanding her calm and dignified de- 
meanor, that Douglas sprung toward her in unfeigned 
alarm. 

“ Lady, thou art ill. What has chanced ? speak to me, 
for Heaven’s sake ! ” 

“ I have sent to speak to thee, Douglas,” she replied, with 
an effort at a smile, which affected him infinitely more than 
tears, “ and I will, when this foolish heart can gain suffi- 
cient courage so to do ; but truly, it needs more time than I 
believed.” 

“ Courage — time — and to speak to me ! Ah ! how little 
canst thou read the love I bear thee, and thou canst hesitate 
to ask me aught.” 

“ Hay, ’tis because I know thou lovest me that I pause,” 
replied Isoline, becoming more and more agitated. “ Doug- 
las, thou hast read my face aright, I am wretched; my own 
proud heart hath made me so, but my happiness rests with 
thee.” 

“ With me? ” repeated the astonished earl, gazing at her 
troubled countenance almost in terror ; “ and canst doubt 
one moment I should hesitate to purchase that happiness, 
even with the price of my own ? ” 

“Wilt thou, canst thou? generous noble!” burst from 
the lips of Isoline. “ But why should I ask it — why demand 
it at such a price? Douglas, Douglas, why hast thou loved 
me?” 

“ Who could know thee, watch thee, as I have from 
childhood into youth, from youth to a womanhood beautiful, 
glorious as thine, and yet not love thee, lady ? ” replied 
Douglas, deeply affected ; “ but let me not speak of myself 
now — enough, thou art unhappy, and seekest friendship, 
consolation at my hand. Oh, speak then, dearest, best; ’tis 


THE HAYS OF BIIUCE. 


529 


*gony to see thee thus, and feel I can relieve, and yet thou’rt 
silent.” 

“ Silent, hesitating no more,” answered Isoline, success- 
fully conquering the feelings that almost crushed her, and 
dashing back the gathering tears, she turned those large, 
beautiful eyes upon him, and laid both her hands in his. 

“ Listen to me, Douglas ; I will not wed thee, deceiving 
to the end. Thou shalt read the heart thou seekest; thou 
shalt know its every throb, its most secret sigh, and then, an 
the struggle be too great for thy exalted soul, an thou still 
demandest that which thou hast so gloriously won, be it so, 
I will still be thine. Douglas, thou hast sought me, believ- 
ing my heart free, unoccupied, save by the love of freedom, 
power, woman’s caprice, which my actions have evinced, my 
words acknowledged. I told thee I had naught but cold 
regard to give even to him who won me ; but I said not that 
I could love, nay, that I did love, and that it was in the 
wild hope the object of that love would prove it was re- 
turned, by joining the noble band who struggled for me, 
that my hand, as the reward of glory, was then proclaimed. 
Do not start, do not look thus: I have more to tell, and 
how may I have courage to proceed ? ” 

The face of the Douglas had become pale as her own, 
while the unconscious but convulsive closing of his hands 
on hers betrayed at once the agony her words had caused; 
still he made a sign for her to proceed, and she continued. 

“ Douglas, I was not deceived; though he might not join 
those who thronged round me that eventful night, in pres- 
ence of my royal uncle and his court, for he might not 
then proclaim his name and solve the mystery around him, 
still aware that the day which obtained my hand gave him 
also a name, he besought my permission to strive for me 
with the rest, and it was granted, for it was this I sought. A 
dearer duty interposed between us; the fulfilment of his 
vow demanded his first exertions, and thus it was he failed. 
Douglas, dear, generous friend, thy valor hath won my 
hand, but the love thou seekest, the love thou deservest, oh, 
I cannot give thee; it hath mocked my control, it hath 
passed from my own keeping; my heart hath shrined but 
one image, and, oh, it hath no room for more. Perchance I 
have deceived, have done thee wrong, in permitting thee to 
believe so long my heart was free, and thus might become 
thine own ; but how might I, dared I breathe unto another 
what I had denied unto myself? Oh, hadst thou but loved 
me as a brother, as I love, esteem, and reverence thee. Isoline 


530 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


had had no secret from thee, even of her heart! Thou 
hast a claim upon me now, I acknowledge, nay, adhere to it. 
I ask nothing but as thine own noble spirit dictates ; I have 
laid bare my heart, have told thee all. My hand is thine, if 
still thou claimest its possession, still believest I alone can 
make thee happy.” 

There was a long pause. The iron frame of the stalwart 
warrior shook as would a child’s; still he held her hands, 
still he gazed upon her face, upturned to his in all the 
beautiful, confiding frankness of her nature; his very lip 
became white and quivering, and the big drops of intense, 
though internal suffering stood on his tightly-drawn brow. 
Isoline could not witness this agony unmoved; he felt her 
hot tears fast falling on his hand; he heard the low sobs 
that would have vent, and there was one deep though evi- 
dently smothered groan, and then he laid one trembling 
hand upon her head, and uttered her name. 

“ Isoline, look up, beloved one ! ” his voice grew firmer 
after the first agonized effort ; “ tell me one thing more — he 
whom thou lovest — is ” 

“ Alan of Buchan,” replied Isoline, but in a voice so low, 
it could have been heard by none but one so intent as 
Douglas. 

“ And he loves thee, Isoline ; loves thee, and will make 
thy happiness his first, his dearest object. Canst thou trust 
thy future fate to his keeping without a fear ? ” 

“ Aye, as I would to thine,” was her instant reply. 

“ Hay, Isoline, thou must trust it something more. In 
my keeping, alas ! there would be little happiness,” he strug- 
gled to speak playfully, but he overrated his own powers, 
and the last words involuntarily breathed such intense suf- 
fering that he abruptly paused. “ Yes, thou mayest trust 
him ; he is, in truth, noble, faithful, well deserving of wom- 
an’s love, aye, even of love like thine. I should have seen 
this, known this, but I was blind, wilfully blind. Isoline, 
dearest, noblest! for such thou art in thy glorious truth, 
oh, do not weep. Thou shalt, thou shalt be happy. Give 
me but time; my energies are stunned — I am not Douglas 
yet. But thou shalt not have trusted me, confided in me 
in vain; give me, give me but time. Thou shalt know 
how dear is thy happiness, how much I love thee ; but now, 
now, God of Heaven ! now ” 

There was no other word, the hands which still clasped 
hers were cold as stone; he drew her close to him, his lips, 
burning and quivering, lingered on her brow; he released 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


531 


her, unconscious that the pressure of his hands was tight 
even to pain ; that too at length gave way — another moment 
and he was gone. 

Sir Alan’s impulse to rush from the convent, he cared 
not whither, was arrested by the appearance of the king and 
the countess, whose anxiety to gaze again upon her Agnes, 
even though she dreaded finding herself unknown, could not 
be restrained. The haggard appearance of the young 
knight could not fail to attract notice, but there was evi- 
dently such a struggle for control, that both the king and 
countess checked the words of anxiety upon their lips. 

“ Thou must not leave me thus, my Alan. I have re- 
gained thee too brief a period to lose thee even for an hour. 
I want thee ever near me, my child, or I may deem this 
joy still but a dream of happiness, from which I yet may 
awake.” 

So spoke the countess, seeking to soothe the sufferings 
she intuitively felt sprung from a wound she might not 
heal, by an appeal to his filial love, and he felt the appeal. 
Left alone together while the king went to mark the state 
of Agnes, the reports of whom had alarmed him, Isabella 
engaged her son so effectually in conversation on all that 
had befallen him in those long years of agonized separation, 
on all she had endured, all her feelings, that unconsciously 
a calm stole over him; and he found himself listening with 
intense interest to his mother’s simple yet trying tale, and 
by the time they were summoned to the chamber of Agnes, 
he was sufficiently controlled to accompany his mother. 
The king met them in an antechamber, the animation of 
victory, of his thrice glorious success, had given place to 
an expression of anxious mournfulness which struck Alan 
at once. 

“ My sister ! ” he exclaimed, “ oh, what of her ? ” 

“ She is changed, Alan, I know not how ; I can scarce 
define it. It seems strange three short days should have 
produced a difference so striking. I fear me, lady, the hope 
I have ventured to breathe is vain; that lovely frame is 
sinking fast, even as the mind grows clearer.” 

“ Thinks your highness she will know me ? hath she any 
recollection of her mother ? ” f alteringly and tearfully in- 
quired the countess. 

“ I scarce dare answer, for her only thought as yet hath 
been of me, rejoicing in my glory, in the freedom of her 
country, murmuring of him, whose task her sweet and gen- 
tle fancy pictures now as done. She sleeps ; the lady abbess 


532 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


deems it better she should in waking find thee beside her, 
that thou shouldst wait her waking; her slumbers are brief 
as they are light. Canst thou bear to gaze upon her, lady? 
she is changed e’en since thou looked upon her last.” 

“ Fear me not, my liege; let me but see my child.” 

The wish was granted ; again did that mother gaze upon 
her suffering child, again kneel beside her couch, where she 
lay, so frail, so lightly, the cushions seemed insensible to her 
weight. She lay like a flower, whose loveliness and purity 
beams forth even from its closed petals and drooping head. 
A stillness as of death pervaded the chamber, though many 
lingered within it; the countess and King Robert sate on 
either side of the couch, Alan, with arms folded, leaned 
against the wall at the foot, his eyes fixed upon his sleeping 
sister; the abbess sate at some little distance, but watchful, 
anxious as the rest. An hour passed ere a slight movement 
took place in that sleeping form; her eyes unclosed, and 
fixed themselves in wondering consciousness on her moth- 
er’s face. 

“ Am I still a child ? ” she murmured ; “ have I never 
quitted my childhood’s home? Mother, is it long since we 
parted? it seems so, and yet it cannot be, or how wouldst 
thou be by me, watching my slumbers, as thou hast done so 
oft before? Where am I — is this the Tower of Buchan? 
and Alan, dear Alan, where is he? I would kiss thee, 
mother. Why can I not rise ? ” 

Subduing emotion with an almost convulsive effort, the 
countess tenderly supported her in a sitting posture, and 
the arms of Agnes were instantly folded round her neck, 
clinging closer, yet closer to the bosom to which she was so 
fondly clasped, while the tears and kisses of the countess 
mingled on her cheek. 

“ Do not weep, sweet mother ; speak to me, it seems so 
long since I heard thy voice, and yet it cannot be ; my sleep 
cannot have been so long as it appears.” 

“ My child, my blessed child ! ” was all the countess 
could reply, despite her every effort for less agitated words. 

Agnes hastily lifted her head, a sudden contraction con- 
vulsed for a single instant her features, and she put her 
hand to her brow. 

“ It cannot have been all a dream. Have I not lived 
ages of suffering since I heard that dear voice? I thought I 
was still a child, but childhood cannot have such strange, 
dark memories. Yet thou art my mother. Yes, yes, and 
that is Alan, my own, darling Alan. I cannot be so de- 


THE DAYS OF BEUCE. 


533 


ceived ; but it seems so long since I have seen either of ye — 
as if a blank had effaced existence. Mother, my own moth- 
er, hast thou been with thine Agnes all this time ? I do not 
think so. Fold me, fold me closer — do not leave me again; 
oh, it is so blessed to look upon thy sweet face.” 

She was silent a brief while, and neither her mother nor 
brother could speak in answer. Alan had caught her hand, 
and was repeatedly kissing it. 

“ Is there not some one else I miss ? ” she resumed. 
“ Alan, dearest, is Nigel gone? would he go without fare- 
well ? — oh, no. Ha ! who is that ? ” her eye had caught the 
countenance of the king looking upon her with strong emo- 
tion. “That is not Nigel; no, no!” The voice changed 
suddenly and fearfully, a darker and longer convulsion 
passed across her beautiful features, she struggled to speak, 
but for a brief minute only indistinct murmurs came. 

“ Thou art my mother ; oh, ’tis all clear now ! there is 
still a blank, but what caused that blank? It matters not, 
’tis all over now; my husband, my dearest husband, thine 
Agnes will soon join thee; death has no terrors, no sorrow, 
for it gives me back to thee. Mother, Alan, do not weep for 
me, life could have no joy alone. And thou, my sovereign, 
there is a dim sense of unfailing love, unchanging kindness 
from thee to me, where all else is blank. My husband 
blessed thee with his dying breath, and so, yet more grate- 
fully, more earnestly, doth his poor Agnes. Nay, tell me 
not of life, I know that I am dying — memory, sense, con- 
sciousness, are all too clear for a dwelling upon earth. Is 
there not one other I would see, one I have dearly loved — 
Isoline, my kind, my gentle Isoline, or is she but a crea- 
tion of my brain? yet her image seems too palpable; an 
there be indeed such, oh, call her to me.” 

Words cannot describe the expression of feature that fol- 
lowed the convulsion in which consciousness returned. The 
Agnes of previous years seemed suddenly restored, save that 
every feature was etherealized ; it was as if every grosser 
particle had fled, as if an angel had already taken that form, 
and waited but the archangel’s summons to wing her flight 
above. She had laid her head upon her mother’s bosom, a 
smile of heavenly peace beaming alternately on her and 
the king, for Alan had sprung to obey her will. A few brief 
minutes and Isoline stood with her brother by her side. 

“ Ah, it was no vision, no vain fancy ! Isoline, dearest 
Isoline ! ” she exclaimed, with sudden strength, and spring- 
ing up, she threw her arms around her neck, her lips met 


534 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


hers with one long, last kiss, and she sunk back. “ Mother, 
he calls me; do you not hear him? Nigel, my husband, 
they have loosed my chains, oh, I may come to thee — joy, 
joy — I come — I come ! ” 

There was silence; in its fulness, its rich, its thrilling 
sweetness, that voice was hushed, but so unchanged, un- 
shadowed, was that angelic face, it was long, long ere a 
breath, a sob, might whisper of death. That mothers 
glance moved not from her child, as if she still dreamed of 
sleep, of life — oh, who might undeceive her! neither King 
Robert nor Alan could break that stillness; but gently Iso- 
line approached, she knelt before the countess, and, raising 
her hand to her lips, whispered, “ The last word was joy. 
Lady, sweet lady, how may we grieve ? ” 

Isabella’s head drooped on her shoulder, with a burst of 
relieving tears. 

“ A little while, and I too may joy; the earthly chains 
are loosed, my blessed child at peace, but now I feel only 
what my yearning heart hath lost — my beautiful, my own ! ” 

It was near midnight, and Alan and Isoline sate alone 
beside the bed. The former had succeeded in persuading 
his mother to retire from that melancholy task, and it was 
on his return from escorting her to an adjoining chamber, 
from lingering a while beside her, that he found Isoline 
bending over the beautiful form of his sister, imprinting a 
parting kiss upon the chiselled brow. It was evident she 
was not aware of his intended return, and had delayed the 
impulse of her heart till he had departed. She started, as 
on rising from the posture of devotion in which she had 
sunk she beheld him. He could see the flush of indecision 
pass across her expressive features; his own breast felt so 
calm, so tranquillized, that it seemed as if in the holy pres- 
ence of death even the society of Isoline could not disturb 
it. He approached respectfully. 

“ Go not, lady,” he said, “ an it please thee to rest beside 
all that remains of one we have both so dearly loved. I 
have promised my mother that I will not leave this mourn- 
ful vigil till morning dawns; but an thou wouldst my ab- 
sence rather than I should share it with thee, I will report 
the change of watchers, and doubt not she will rest content. 
Go not, I beseech thee, an thou earnest hither to stay ! ” 

“ I do not shun thy presence, my lord, nay, would share 
thy vigil ; this is not a scene, a presence for aught of earth 
or earthly love to enter on, and for the brief while I linger 
here it needs not thou shouldst go. I fear no weakness 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


535 


now ! ” She spoke calmly and collectedly, and nearly an 
hour rolled by and still found them on either side the dead; 
but no word or sound disturbed the stillness. No one who 
casually glanced on those lone watchers might guess their 
relative positions, the thoughts that perchance were strug- 
gling unexpressed in either heart. Large waxen tapers 
burning, two at the foot and two at the head of the couch, 
shed their soft light directly upon Agnes, who lay, not like 
sleep indeed, but beautiful as sculptured marble, every fea- 
ture so perfect, and in such deep repose, no thought of an- 
guish could linger in those who gazed upon her; all of suf- 
fering had passed, it was calm, placid, lovely as a child’s, 
breathing of the peace to which she had departed — and for- 
ever. The face of Isoline was concealed by her right hand 
and the long loose curls that fell around her — in her left 
lay the cold hand of Agnes ; her whole position denoting her 
mind was with the dead alone. The gaze of Alan lingered 
alternately on his sister and on Isoline, seeking in that still 
holy hour the strength he so much needed, but not so much 
engrossed as not to become conscious that the light of the 
tapers at the foot was impeded. He hastily looked up; a 
tall, martial figure stood before them, his head uncovered, 
his arms folded in a long wrapping-cloak. One glance and 
Sir Alan had arisen. 

“ Douglas ! ” he exclaimed ; “ my Lord of Douglas, can 
it be ! yet wherefore ? ” 

“ Wherefore should it not be, Alan ! Who could asso- 
ciate with the suffering, the loving Agnes, yet mourn not 
she is gone, despite the gain to her? I sought thee, Alan, 
ignorant of that which had befallen thee, and they told me 
I should find thee by thy sister’s bier.” 

He paused abruptly. Startled by his voice, Isoline had 
risen from her drooping posture, had fixed her large eyes in- 
quiringly upon him, for there was something in the very 
calmness of his tone that terrified her. He had stepped 
more forward, and having dropped the cloak from his face 
the light fell full upon it, and disclosed so fearful a change 
of countenance that both Alan and Isoline involuntarily 
started forward, with an exclamation of alarmed surprise. 
It was as if an age of agony had passed over him, leaving its 
indented furrows on his features. There were deep lines 
on his noble brow and round his mouth, which, when he 
ceased to speak, appeared involuntarily to compress, as if 
still under the influence of immense bodily pain ; his cheeks, 
usually ruddy, were deadly pale, rendered perchance the 


53G 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


more remarkable from its contrast with the naturally 
swarthy hue of his complexion. His eye, strangely and fear- 
fully bright, yet appeared sunk deeper in its socket, from 
which the burning agony within seemed emitted in restless 
flashes ; his hair, generally rough with natural curls, now lay 
on his brow damp and matted ; and there was something in 
his whole appearance so unlike himself, that Alan, wholly 
unconscious of what had passed, felt his warmest sympa- 
thies aroused, and forgetting he was his successful rival, 
all but that a noble companion in arms was under the in- 
fluence of some whelming distress, grasped his hand, ex- 
claiming : 

“ In Heaven’s name, Douglas, what has chanced — what 
hath befallen thee ? ” 

“ Befallen me ? wdiy, nothing,” he answered, returning 
the friendly pressure with a frank though quivering smile. 
“ Nothing but an unexpected strife — a battle, which hath 
wearied me and left me as you see, looking perchance some- 
what exhausted, but not conquered, Alan. No, no, Douglas 
is conqueror still ! ” 

“ My noble friend, what can you mean — a strife, a bat- 
tle? I have heard naught; nay, thou dost but mock me — 
the fiercest strife never made thee look thus.” 

“ I never knew the meaning of those words, ‘ fierce strife,’ 
until to-day, my friend. I tell thee I have fought and have 
conquered, and am wearied, though triumphant still.” 

“ Conquered — fought — in Heaven’s name, with whom ? ” 

“Myself!” replied Douglas, with such a deep, thrilling 
emphasis on that single word that it spoke a life. Alan 
dropped his hand in speechless wonder, keeping his eye fixed 
on him as on some superior, but the effect on Isoline seemed 
stranger still. 

“ Douglas, Douglas ! ” she exclaimed, with bitter tears. 
“ Oh, no, no, no, ’tis I have done this ; I alone have caused 
this anguish ! ” 

Douglas put his arm around her, but he pressed no kiss 
upon that beautiful face, lost in such remorseful sorrow, up- 
raised to his; a slight convulsion might have contracted his 
features, but it was so momentary that even by Isoline it 
was unseen. 

“ Nay, speak not so false a word, sweet one, or I shall 
chide thee. Thou shalt make Douglas prouder, greater, 
nobler than he hath been yet, and shall this be a cause of 
sorrow? For thee, Sir Alan, tell me truly, solemnly, for the 
holy presence in which we stand is no place for flattering de- 


THE DAYS OF BEUCE. 


537 


ception — bearest thou no enmity, no envy toward the Doug- 
las for a success, a triumph dearer to him than all the 
blushing honors men say that he has gained ? Are we still 
comrades, still friends ? ” 

There was a pause, a struggle ; for the distress of Isoline, 
the answering words of Douglas had caused a revulsion of 
feeling in Alan’s bounding heart, and he had stepped back 
in silence and in gloom. 

“ Yes,” he said, at length, and he placed his hand in 
that of Douglas ; “ yes, thy worth is too high, too glorious 
for Alan Comyn to disdain thy friendship, even though thou 
bearest from him the dearest hope, the loveliest treasure of 
his soul. Enmity — oh, not thus degraded am I; envy — try 
me not too hard, my lord. How may I love, love as thou 
dost, and yet not envy ? ” 

“And is thy love like mine, Alan? were her happiness 
distinct from thine, thinkest thou — but enough of this, I 
will not press thee hardly. Thy words are cold, but I will 
make them warm; thou shalt love me, Alan; the Douglas 
will make himself a home in your united hearts, and mourn 
not he is lonely. Isoline, loveliest, noblest, look up and 
smile ; said I not I would seek thy happiness above my own, 
and couldst thou doubt me? Alan, here, in the holy pres- 
ence of the dead, I resign my claim. Oh, love each other; 
oh, be true, be happy! and I ask no more. Hay, speak not,” 
he continued, with strong yet controlled emotion, “ let no 
shade, no care for Douglas come athwart the pure heaven 
of your bliss r he loves you both too well to mourn that, for 
your sakes, a while his life is lone.” 

Gently, as he spoke, he drew the weeping Isoline to his 
bosom, and pressed a brother’s kiss upon her lips, then plac- 
ing her in the arms of the agitated Alan, breathed on them 
both his blessing. 

Oh, virtue, unselfish, immortal virtue, how glorious 
thou art ! how faint, how pale, how shadow-like seemeth the 
warrior’s glory, the sage’s wisdom, the lover’s glowing dream 
to thee ! Art thou not the voice of Him who breathed into 
man the breath of life, and giving thee birth and substance 
in his soul bade thee linger there, despite of woe and sin and 
care — linger, when oft imagined flown — linger, when seem- 
ing crushed beneath the dull and massive woes of earth — 
linger, as still the golden link ’twixt earth and heaven, the 
invisible essence, uniting man to God, his soul to glory? 
Oh, beautiful art thou, and glorious the triumph, which, 
though oft unknown to earth, is caught up by thousands 


538 


THE BAYS OF BRUCE. 


and thousands of ministering spirits to that throne where 
eternally thou dwellest, eternally thou reignest coeval with 
thy God! 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

The effects of the battle of Bannockburn on the external 
glory and internal prosperity and happiness of Scotland is a 
subject too exclusively belonging to history to be lingered 
on by the chronicler of chivalry and romance. Some brief 
notice of the fate of the prisoners we must take, and our 
task is well-nigh accomplished. The spoil collected from 
the field alone was inestimable, and the large ransoms paid 
by the numerous prisoners of exalted rank added immensely 
to the national treasures. A very few weeks sufficed to give 
King Robert the blessings for which so many years, despite 
of dawning prosperity and individual glory, he had so in- 
tensely yearned. His wife, his sisters, all those beloved rela- 
tives and friends, who, from adherence to his cause or love 
for his person, had for so many years languished in Eng- 
lish prisons, were released, their liberty eagerly granted in 
exchange for that of the Earl of Hereford, Lord High Con- 
stable of England. Again was Scotland a free, an inde- 
pendent, nay, more, a triumphant kingdom, strong in her 
own resources, united in herself, glorying in the sway of 
an enlightened sovereign, combining in his own person the 
wisdom of the sage, the prescience, the prudence of the 
statesman, and every dazzling quality that could adorn the 
patriot and the warrior. 

Peace was upon the land, her silvery pinions shedding a 
lucid lustre on the colossal spirit of freedom, now, with 
gigantic tread, claiming Scotland as her own. The glitter- 
ing sword was exchanged for the sceptre of the judge. The 
court was no more ’mid glens and plains, and rocks and 
forests, nor was the royal palace merely the resort of iron- 
clad warriors, amid whom the noble matron or the gentle 
maiden seemed strangely out of place. Rank, beauty, glory, 
worth, all who had clung to King Robert’s service in time 
of need were welcome there; and joyous in truth was it to 
the good king to feel reward was in his power, and deal 
it with unsparing hand on all he loved, on all who so loved 
him. From the palace to the hut festivity and joyousness 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


539 


danced along the land; from the king to the serf there was 
naught but one deep feeling of chastened and thankful bliss, 
permitting, encouraging the dark memories of the past, for 
in them the present was sanctified and blessed. 

Many of the Scottish nobles who, serving under the ban- 
ner of Edward, had been taken prisoners, were, on payment 
of some fines and a short imprisonment, received anew into 
favor, on their earnestly entreating to take the vows of 
allegiance to their rightful sovereign. Among these was 
the Earl of Fife, who, at his sister and nephew’s interces- 
sion, found himself restored to his parental estates, without 
the forfeiture of one title, coupled only with a condition, 
which, in his present state of mind, he was willing enough 
to comply with — to recognize Alan as his successor, leaving 
to him all his restored possessions — married or unmarried, 
this condition was to hold good to the exclusion of all natu- 
ral heirs. Now, the Earl of Fife was too indolently and self- 
ishly disposed even to dream of the toils and troubles and 
little pleasures of matrimony, and, moreover, began, as fast 
as his volatile and unprincipled character admitted, to take 
a vast liking to his handsome, gallant, and, what was better 
still, royally favored nephew. His much-injured sister had 
met him with the open hand of forgiveness and entire for- 
getfulness of the unkindness of the past, and he hugged 
himself in the comfortable belief that, nowithstanding 
many hindrances to his luxurious habits, Scotland was as 
good a country as England to live in, and her king quite 
as well worth serving as Edward. 

True to his promise, notwithstanding the numerous and 
momentous events with which the day after the battle had 
teemed, King Robert with his own lips gave unqualified lib- 
erty to that Sir Alan Comyn who had been so long imposed 
on the world as the son of Isabella, and the young man, im- 
pressed with the munificence and condescension of his royal 
captor, voluntarily took an oath never to bear arms against 
him, and requested permission to retire to foreign lands. 

To those in whom the character of Malcolm may have 
excited any curiosity, it may be well to say from his earliest 
years the Countess of Buchan had been his benefactress ; in- 
heriting from his parents’ lips and example the love, rever- 
ence, and fidelity they felt and practised, his whole thoughts 
and affections had centred in the countess and her children, 
and the secret of his wanderings for the first few years after 
the countess’s imprisonment, was to discover some clue to 
the fate of Sir Alan; no persuasions, no representations 
35 


540 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


could reconcile him to the belief that he was dead. The 
barbarous policy of the Earl of Buchan of course eluded all 
his efforts; but though effectually concealed by increase of 
stature, deeper voice, and his disguise from even King Rob- 
ert’s eyes, Malcolm discovered Sir Alan on the instant, and 
vowed his services and preservation of his secret, with an ex- 
ulting love and fidelity peculiarly sweet and affecting to the 
desolate heart of his young master; how he performed that 
vow our readers are the best judges. Now that his task was 
done, his beloved mistress at liberty, his master freed from 
all painful mystery, and blessed with happiness beyond all 
expectation, he no longer refused to throw aside the page’s 
garb, and adopt the more honorable though graver office of 
esquire, retaining in truth his love of adventure, but failing 
in nothing which could add to the welfare and interest of 
his master. 

It cannot be supposed that the detail of Buchan’s last 
interview with his son and the justice he had rendered him 
could fail of sinking deeply on the noble heart of the 
Countess of Buchan. It had been a struggle, a terrible, al- 
most prostrating struggle, ere she felt she could so school 
her spirit as to feel she forgave freely, unconditionally for- 
gave her husband the unequalled agony his cruelty, his un- 
called-for injuries had inflicted. It was not for her own 
personal sufferings, those she might have borne without 
once failing in charity and kindness toward him, but the 
horrible thought he had ruthlessly massacred his child; a 
thought she knew his dark stern nature too well to doubt, 
and which she had implicitly believed for the eight years of 
her weary captivity, for the rumor her boy was alive, and 
the petted minion of Edward’s court, had never obtained a 
moment’s credence in her soul. That horrible image filled 
her whole heart with such a feeling of loathing, of detes- 
tation toward its perpetrator, that she almost shuddered at 
herself. But Isabella knew where to seek for strength to 
subdue even this too natural but fearful emotion, for com- 
fort even under this appalling infliction. She had thought 
with comparative calmness on the supposed death of her 
Agnes, for she truly felt, in the utter loneliness, the dread- 
ful bereavement of her lot, death were better than life, and 
gradually, nay, almost imperceptibly, by incessant prayer, 
after years of anguish, her feelings became calmed toward 
her husband ; she could think of him, at first with decrease 
of pain, then with steady calmness, and at length with such 
perfect, angelic forgiveness, that had evil come upon him 


THE DAYS OF BKUCE. 


541 


which she could have averted, she would have hesitated not 
a moment to fly to his side, offering him the hand of amity, 
of charity, which no dark remembrance could shade. Such 
being her feelings while still lingering in lonely confine- 
ment, how greatly were they heightened when from her son’s 
eloquent lips she heard of his father’s deep remorse, and 
read its transcript in Buchan’s own hand. Again and 
again she pondered on the past, and in the deep though 
chastened happiness now upon her spirit, which after a 
while even the sweet touching memories of the departed 
Agnes might not alloy, for earth could have brought her 
no joy, she persuaded herself into the belief that she, too, 
had judged harshly; that he had scarce deserved the loath- 
ing abhorrence with which she had regarded him. In the 
deep thrilling bliss of clasping her living son to her yearn- 
ing heart, how might she recall the agony inflicted on her 
by the tale of his supposed death ? The effect of these secret 
ponderings may be gathered from her own lips. 

It was in an apartment of the Castle of Fife the countess 
and her son were seated, some three or four months after 
the battle of Bannockburn. Alan, now known only as Sir 
Alan Duff, or the Lord Baron of Kircaldie, for the hateful 
name of Comyn of Buchan might not remain with so faith- 
ful and loyal a subject of the Bruce and patriot of Scotland, 
was carelessly seated on a broad cushion, resting his arm 
caressingly on his mother’s knee, and looking up entreating- 
ly in her face. All trace of sorrow or care had vanished 
from his eminently handsome features, and completely re- 
covered from the effect of his severe exhaustion and wounds, 
he presented a model of manly beauty that man might ad- 
mire and woman love. They were evidently in very earnest 
converse, interesting enough to make Alan forget that Iso- 
line might be marvelling at his protracted absence, for she 
and her mother, Lady Campbell, were both, at the Countess 
Isabella’s earnest entreaty, inmates of her parental castle. 

“ But my dear mother.” 

“ But my dear son.” 

“ Think of the miseries of such a voyage, and the hard- 
ships thou mayest have to encounter ere we can obtain even 
the faintest clue to my father’s retreat.” 

“We, my dear Alan; I do not mean thee to accompany 
me.” 

“Worse still, dearest mother; can you think for a mo- 
ment seriously, thine Alan would let thee take such a voy- 
age alone? but of that matter we will speak hereafter; at 


542 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


present let me for once obtain the conquest over thy noble 
will. Why shouldst thou seek my father ? ” 

“ Rather, my son, why should I not ? Alan, I cannot 
rest in peace till I have personally assured him of my entire 
oblivion of the past, that though there can be no affection 
between us, there is that blessed charity which covereth in 
truth such a multitude of sins. He wronged me, injured, 
persecuted me; but now, tormented as he is with remorse, 
who so fitted to shed balm over his dying hour as the ob- 
ject of those wrongs? He has done me justice, and shall 
I hold back when a trifling exertion may give him com- 
fort? Listen to me, my child; I owe him reparation for 
what I have ever felt an act of deception, although at the 
time I imagined a holy duty to the dead commanded it 
should be persevered in. I gave my hand to thy father, 
Alan, in pursuance of an early engagement, entered into 
by our mutual parents, ere we could have a voice. I tacitly 
acknowledged the holy vows at the altar’s foot which made 
us one, and solemnly swore to adhere to them to the letter, 
on all but one point — I could not love my husband; for 1 
was even then too painfully conscious I loved another, a 
stranger, whose very name I knew not. I should have 
avowed this, my child, but my courage failed; but though 
in this I erred, it was only in this, for I have been true 
to thy father, Alan, a true and faithful wife. The dream 
of my youth passed away in the deep delight, the blessed 
cares of maternal love, guiltless alike in word and deed, as 
in thought; it was not till my solitary imprisonment I 
learned to feel that had I avowed my real feelings ere I 
joined my hand with his, much of misery might have been 
saved me, and much of crime and remorse spared him. I 
feel I owe him some reparation, my child, and it will be 
a blessed comfort to my heart to feel that I may bestow it, 
by proving forgiveness and charity; and if he will permit 
me, tending his dying hour. Have I silenced thee, my 
Alan?” 

“ Silenced, but barely convinced. I recognized my ex- 
alted, noble-minded mother in every word, but still my heart 
cannot feel the necessity, cannot persuade itself there is any 
call for reparation. Rather let me seek my father; let me 
be the bearer of kindness and forgiveness from thee to him, 
and by my filial love soothe his departing hours. It is my 
duty as well as inclination to seek him in his exile, and 
prove to him I feel him still my father. Mother, there is no 
duty upon thee.” 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


543 


“ There is duty, my child, the duty of proving forgive- 
ness; it is easy to speak it, but less easy to give it action. 
Speak not of thy departure; it shall not be. Why shouldst 
thou leave thy gentle Isoline, resign the honorable post 
about the king thou bearest — for an indefinite period, a 
painful exile — when thy conduct has been such as to call 
down on thee all the happiness, all the blessings thou canst 
receive ? ” 

“ And will not this argument hold good with thee, my 
mother, yet more than with me? What hast thou not 
borne? What dost thou not merit? But if I may not go 
instead, let me go with thee ; surely, in asking this, I do but 
claim the privilege of a son.” 

“ Alan, dearest, thou hast risked more than enough for 
me; hast hazarded thy happiness, all that could make life 
glad, to win my freedom, to bless me again with life and 
joy; thou hast heaped upon me such unutterable bliss in thy 
devoted love, that in very truth I will draw upon it no more. 
I will see thee wedded to the noble being thou wouldst have 
resigned for me; to her, that were all the noble maidens of 
Scotland set before me, would have been my dearest choice. 
I will see this blessed rite, and then for a brief period sepa- 
rate myself from my beloved ones, to return to them when 
a sterner duty accomplished permits a life of unruffled tran- 
quillity and joy. Seek not to dissuade me, my child; my 
mind is made up — and more, King Robert’s tardy and re- 
luctant consent obtained.” 

“ Ha ! ere thou wouldst confide in me, mother ? ” 

“ Son, I knew all that thou wouldst urge, nay, that per- 
haps thou wouldst seek the king to beseech his prohibition, 
and I forestalled thee. Do not look so grieved, my own 
Alan; what is this brief separation, painful to us both as 
it may be, compared to what we have both endured ? ” 

“ Separation ! who talks of separation ? Dearest lady, 
what is this all-engrossing subject, that blinds Sir Alan 
even to my presence? Truly, my lord, an thou heedest 
me so little, I will summon back all my former power 
to recall thine homage and obedience. What is this 
weighty matter, an the Countess Isabella forbids it not, 
I demand to know it, aye, every item, sir, on your alle- 
giance ? ” 

“ And thou shalt know it, lady,” replied Alan, gallantly 
entering at once into the spirit of her words, and bowing 
his knee before her ; “ and then, an thou dost not acquit me 
of all wilful negligence thou shalt condemn me to whatso- 


544 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


ever penance that shall please thee,” and seating her by the 
side of his mother, he resumed his cushion, and briefly, but 
eloquently, repeated all that had passed between his mother 
and himself. 

“ And must this be, dearest lady — will no persuasion 
turn thee from thy purpose ? ” 

“ None, love; for it is duty.” 

“ And it is thy children’s duty to go with thee. Alan 
shall not leave me, for when he and I are one, whither he 
goes I will go! Nay, not a word, sweet mother; for art 
thou not mine even as his? Thou knowest not Isoline, an 
thou thinkest even commands can turn her from a resolve 
as this. We will go together.” 

“ Nay, dearest, but why shouldst thou leave the comforts, 
blessings that await thee in Scotland, to follow me for a 
doubtful good, encountering, perchance, much discomfort, 
even trial ? ” 

“ And better we encounter it than thee ; but if truly 
thou wilt go, so, too, will we,” answered Isoline, caressingly 
clinging to the countess ; “ and Alan can be spared from 
court, but not from his allegiance to thee and me.” 

Who could resist that playful mixture of authority and 
love ? The countess tried alike entreaties and commands to 
change her resolve, but all in vain; and Lord Kircaldie, 
rejoiced beyond all control at the success of her eloquence, 
flung his arm round her waist, pressing more than one kiss 
upon her coral lips, and marvellous to say, eliciting no man- 
ner of reproof. 

The consent of King Robert to this new arrangement 
was not so difficult to obtain as it had been to the countess’s 
departure alone; he trusted that reconciliation effected, her 
children would prevail on the high-minded Isabella to re- 
turn with them, and not, as she had resolved to do, remain 
till her husband should be released by death in voluntary 
exile. 

The six months of mourning for the lamented Agnes 
had elapsed, and all was now active preparation for a double 
marriage; the Lady Isoline Campbell with the Lord Baron 
of Kircaldie, and Sir Walter Fitz-Alan, Lord High Steward 
of Scotland, with the youthful, arch, and lovely daughter of 
the Bruce. On a union which history claims, we need say 
but little; for Isoline and Alan the course of love had not 
run smooth, but for the Princess Marjory, ancestress of a 
long line of kings, and to her devoted cavalier it had, and 
now the last solemn rite was looked forward to with happi- 


THE DAYS OF BKUCE. 


545 


ness as great to them as by those whose affection time and 
circumstances had more severely tried. 

The evening previous to his marriage, as Lord Kircaldie 
was hurrying through one of the galleries of the palace of 
Scone, where the court was again assembled, and in whose 
ancient abbey the bridals were to take place, he was met by 
Lord Edward Bruce, joyous as usual. 

“ Good even, my gentle bridegroom ; knowest thou I 
have been busy in thy service ? ” 

“ Your highness honors me. I pray thee accept my ac- 
knowledgments, though I know not wherefore.” 

“ Busy I have been, but not successful, Alan, so keep thy 
acknowledgments. Bememberest thou the minstrel of 
whose songs I told thee ? behold I have sent far and near for 
that mysterious being, whom I begin now to believe with 
the rustics was spirited away from Stirling. He would 
have verily graced thy nuptials, and I am furious at the 
disappointment of my scheme. He is not to be found; re- 
ward, proclamation, all have been made and offered in vain. 
There, that mischievous smile again on thy lip; by my 
knightly faith, Alan, I verily believe thou knowest more 
about this mysterious marvel of minstrelsie than thou 
choosest to acknowledge.” 

“ I know enough to pledge thee, my lord, that he shall be 
in the abbey church to-morrow, though I cannot promise in 
a minstrel’s garb.” 

“ How ! is he only thus attired at will — how am I to 
know him, then ? ” 

“ By the golden brooch your highness so generously be- 
stowed. Your lordship may believe my solemn assertion, 
that the treasured gift has never for one hour left his pos- 
session ; and he who wears it, however marvellous may seem 
his transformation, rest assured is the minstrel’s self. I 
have puzzled thee, my good lord; I pray you pardon the 
solution till to-morrow.” 

“ I know not that I will, thou arch lover of mystery. 
Tarry; thou shalt explain this ere I let thee go. Isoline 
shall wait for thee.” 

“ I cry thee mercy, good my lord,” was the laughing re- 
ply; and the young nobleman extricated his robe from 
Prince Edward’s grasp, and joyously departed. 

A glowing scene of life and splendor, royalty and beauty, 
did the old abbey church of Scone present the following 
morning. It was high noon, and a winter sun played so 
brightly on the illumined panes, that they flung down in- 


546 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


numerable shades of gorgeous coloring on the marble pave- 
ment as if vying with the splendid robes and glittering gems 
with which the olden shrine was peopled. The good King 
Robert, and his meek and gentle queen, from whose heart 
even the memories of the past had vanished before the glad- 
someness of the present, surrounded by a host of Scotland’s 
noblest peers and matrons, of names too numerous for men- 
tion, but including all whom, in their country’s service, we 
have met so oft before, and all attired with a richness well 
suited to their rank and the ceremony they stood there to 
witness; and the group around the altar, how may the 
chronicler’s dull pen do justice unto them? Both lovely 
brides were dear to Scotland, the one for herself alone, for 
not a toil, a danger, a triumph was recalled in which the 
Lady Isoline had not borne a conspicuous part — softening 
the first, sharing the second, shedding new glory over the 
last, binding herself to every warrior and matron heart as 
part of Scotland ; and the other, too, was dear, for they saw 
but the Bruce in his beauteous child. The princess, blush- 
ing and paling, smiling and tearful, alternately, gleamed like 
some lovely flower, drooping its head from the ardent gaze, 
seeking to hide the glory of its own soft beauty. The Lady 
Isoline, lofty, majestic as her wont, perchance a degree more 
pale, but permitting no emotion to vary her pure cheek — 
her mouth, her full dark eye, her glorious brow, all breath- 
ing a tale of soul, so thrilling and forcibly, she needed 
neither tears nor smiles, and might be likened to a radiant 
star alone in the purple heavens, speaking of more than the 
beauty it reveals, and chaining our gaze as our hearts ’neath 
the voiceless magic of its charm, seeming lovelier and more 
lovely the longer that we gaze. And the respective bride- 
grooms might have been guessed, had they been placed other 
than they were. The young Fitz-Alan, flushed with high 
excitement, buoyancy and joyance so struggling for domin- 
ion that he could with difficulty effect control — eye, thought, 
heart, seeing, feeling naught but her thus soon to be his 
own, as one in a delicious dream, whose bliss was as yet 
too deep, too sparkling for reality. Not so Sir Alan — for 
we must still call him so; calm, collected, every feature 
breathing the deep, unshadowed fulness of bliss within, 
but bliss chastened, heightened by previous trial, he seemed 
well suited to take the vows of love, protection, faithfulness 
to that glorious one who knelt beside him, and whose eye, 
when it did not rest on him, so softly and sweetly acknowl- 
edged that for him even love of power was subdued, that 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


547 


she could bow her soul to his. But their thoughts, even in 
that solemn hour, were not alone on themselves ; they 
thought on Him to whom that joy was owing, and deep, un- 
utterable gratitude to him swelled either heart. 

The Countess of Buchan, with the parents of Isoline, 
stood on the left side of the high altar; the king and queen 
on' the right, where the Princess Marjory knelt. Fifty lovely 
maidens and as many high-born youths, scions of Scotland’s 
nobles and knights, ranged alternately, the former bearing 
wreaths of myrtle and other exotic plants, formed an inner 
circle two deep directly around the bridal group; the re- 
mainder of the choir and aisles crowded with the noble 
spectators. The aged Abbot of Scone, released from his 
weary captivity by exchange of prisoners, officiated at the 
altar, seconded by the monks of the abbey; the olden organ 
and its choir, concealed by a rich drapery of velvet and gold, 
rose behind them, and silence had fallen on that noble mul- 
titude, prefacing the burst of choral harmony with which 
the rites were to begin. 

It was at that moment a hurried but military step was 
heard advancing up the nave and through the choir; it 
reached a vacant place between the Countess of Buchan 
and Prince Edward. Alan and Isoline looked up in inquir- 
ing wonder, little dreaming on what noble form their gaze 
would fall, for the kindly policy of the king had found some 
distant mission on which to employ the Douglas, till that 
eventful day had passed: yet there he stood, and there was 
no sign either of haste or negligence in his almost sumptu- 
ous apparel, naught which might betray the mental struggle 
which men gazed on him but to trace. He stood looking yet 
nobler, more gloriously majestic than e’en on the battle- 
field, when hundreds fled before his victorious brand, and 
Scotland hailed him patriot and deliverer. His eye was as 
bright, his lip as red as was their wont, and who, as they 
marked the glance of deep yet unimpassioned interest which 
rested on the bridal pair, might guess what had been the 
struggle of his soul ? 

The impressive service commenced, and not a sound 
was heard in that vast and crowded edifice, but the abbot’s 
voice in all the eloquence of prayer. The responses of the 
princess were scarcely audible, but those of Isoline fell in 
thrilling richness on every ear and every heart. 

Interested as was the countess in the solemn rites, her 
eye moved not from the face of him to whose exalted virtue 
her son owed his present bliss. There was no change, no 


548 


THE DAYS OF BKUCE. 


shade in that face, whose deep repose might be likened unto 
marble; but as the words, “ Those whom God hath joined, 
let no man put asunder,” thrilled along the incensed air, 
the lip suddenly became compressed, the brow contracted, 
lasting but a brief moment; but as the lightning flash dis- 
closes the wreck its bolt hath made, so did that momentary 
change reveal the wreck of happiness within. 

But there came no further change in mien or feature; 
even when the voice of prayer had ceased, when naught but 
joyous gratulation sparkled round, when breaking from 
their thronging friends, e’en from the congratulations of 
the king, ere they sought the blessing and embrace of the 
Countess of Buchan, Isoline and Alan, with deep emotion, 
in brief but heartfelt words besought the Douglas to accept 
their gratitude, their love, and let them feel and reverence, 
and call him brother, from whom alone of earth their bliss 
had sprung. 

“ In your bliss I have made mine own,” he cried ; “ let 
Douglas claim a brother’s privilege, and be the first to give 
thee joy, to wish thee all of bliss that love and truth may 
give.” 

He held their united hands in his, pressed them kindly, 
and turned to greet the princess and her husband with such 
smiles and courteous jest as the hour might call. 

“ Art thou not the very king of mysteries, thou naughty 
rebel ? ” was the salutation of Prince Edward after warmly 
saluting his favorite niece. “ How darest thou tell me he 
who wore my golden brooch was the minstrel I sought? 
Tell me, an thou wilt not dare my wrath e’en on thy wed- 
ding day, how earnest thou to possess it ? where is the prince 
of soft lays to whom I gave it ? ” 

“ So, please your highness, I can say no more than I have 
said. The prince of soft lays, as thou art pleased to call 
him, is before you, ready and willing to don the minstrel’s 
garb wherever and whenever thou mayest command it.” 

“ Thou that king of minstrels, Alan ? this passes cre- 
dence ; why he had auburn locks soft and flowing as a maid- 
en’s, and a voice melodious and thrilling as, as ” 

“ That of my husband,” archly answered Isoline ; “ try 
him, uncle mine, and trust me for the soft auburn locks so 
easily assumed, particularly as the face they shaded had 
been hid from all before.” 

“ But wherefore, why so madly thrust himself on a pike’s 
head, by tempting discovery in Stirling Castle? Verily, 
friend Alan, if they dub me a mad knight-errant, what art 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


549 


thou? what, in the name of all that’s marvellous, took thee 
there ? ” 

“ His mother,” interposed the countess, ere Alan could 
reply. “ Your highness was informed the prisoner^ he 
sought lay within those beleaguered walls. How think you 
this discovery had been made ? ” 

“Not by such madness, lady, trust me; truly I can 
scarce credit it now. Don thy minstrel robe and viol, and 
I may believe thee.” 

“ And so he shall, good brother, in a more fitting season,” 
answered King Robert ; “ but for the present day he must 
fill a somewhat higher station. My lords and gentles, we 
crave your noble company in our royal halls. The church 
hath done her duty, now then let the palace.” 


Contrary winds and heavy storms had detained the 
Countess of Buchan some weeks longer than she desired in 
Scotland, but at length wind and time appeared more favor- 
able, and the vessels prepared for her escort lay manned 
and ready along the coast of Fife, waiting her commands. 
Early in February those commands were given, and active 
preparations in the Castle of Fife announced her rapidly- 
approaching departure. The morning dawned heavily and 
stormily, but she heeded not the elements; her mind, fixed 
on a self-imposed duty, longed but to obey its dictates, and 
feel that between herself and her husband all was at length 
perfect reconciliation and peace. Nor had Isoline and her 
husband wavered in their determination; and now, sur- 
rounded by her retainers and by many other noble friends, 
who had assembled to attend her with all the honor, the re- 
spect she so well deserved, Isabella of Buchan stood upon 
the beach. The boat had been dispatched from the prin- 
cipal galley, it neared the shore, it stranded, and with a 
kindly gesture of farewell the countess, leaning on the arm 
of her son, placed her foot upon the plank. At that mo- 
ment there was some movement increasing to confusion 
among the crowd; and Malcolm, springing to his master’s 
side, besought him to wait one moment, as he had dis- 
cerned a horseman riding such full speed toward them, that 
their detention for a brief while was evidently sought. 
Almost ere the words had passed his lips a very aged man 
had rushed through the crowd, had hurried down the beach, 
flinging himself at the feet of the countess, and grasping 
her robe as to detain her, ere breath returned for speech. 


550 


THE DAYS OF BRUCE. 


The words “ Cornac,” “ my father,” burst simultaneously 
from the lips of the countess and her son; and Isabella, 
bending kindly over him, bade him rise and rest, she would 
wait to speak with him till he could tell her all he needed. 

“ That I can now, most noble lady,” he answered, rising 
and standing before her. “ My task is soon accomplished. 
I feared but that I had arrived too late, and thy pilgrimage 
of mercy had already commenced. Goest thou not to Nor- 
way ? ” 

“ Aye, to my husband ; come ye from him ? ” 

“ Lady, yes ; bearing that charity and reconciliation ye 
go to give. Remand thy vessels, lady, for them thou hast 
no need.” 

“ Nay, my faithful follower, thy mission bears not on 
my purpose ; wherefore should I not proceed ? ” 

“ Lady, he whom ye seek, the injurer and the penitent, 
thy noble, thy generous kindness can no longer avail; he 
hath gone where man may not reach him — where earth may 
not bless. John Comyn, Earl of Buchan, sinning but re- 
pentant, cruel but atoning, lies with the dead.” 


( 2 ) 


THE END. 


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Illustrated by George Gibbs and others. 

Midshipman Farragut. 

By James Barnes. Illustrated by Carlton F. Chapman. 

Decatur and Somers. 

By Molly Elliot Seawell. With 6 full-page Illustrations by 
J. O. Davidson and others. 

Paul Jones. 

By Molly Elliot Seawell. With 8 full-page Illustrations. 

Midshipman Paulding. 

A True Story of the War of 1812. By Molly Elliot Seawell. 
With 6 full page Illustrations. 

Little Jarvis. 

The Story of the Heroic Midshipman of the Frigate Constellation. 
By Molly Elliot Seawell. With 6 full-page Illustrations. 

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, NEW YORK. 


NEW BOOKS FOR YOUNG READERS. 


BY JAMES BARNES. 

The Giant of Three Wars. 

(Heroes of Our Army Series.) Illustrated. i2mo. Cloth, $1.00 
net; postage, io cents additional. 

This life of General Winfield Scott makes the first volume in the new 
series to be known as “ Heroes of Our Army.” It possesses a colored frontis- 
piece and other illustrations. 

BY MARION AMES TAGGART. 

At Aunt Anna’s. 

Colored Frontispiece and other Illustrations by William L. 
Jacobs. i2mo. Cloth, $1.00 net ; postage, io cents additional. 

The story of Ted and Dolly, who are twins, while staying one summer in 
the country at Aunt Anna’s. This is a tale for children of ten or twelve years 
of age, being illustrated, and having an illustrative cover. It is a dainty book 
for dainty children, but has the charm that interests the grown person, who 
may read it aloud to those for whom it was written. 

BY KATE DICKINSON SWEETSER. 

Micky of the Alley and Other Youngsters. 

With Illustrations by George Alfred Williams. i2mo. Cloth, 
$1.00 net ; postage, io cents additional. 

A collection of tales for children of ten to twelve years of age. The subjects 
are widely varied. That one giving its title to the book, together with “ James 
Barkerding, Knight, ” are of life in the tenement districts of New York. 
“Teddy Baird’s Luck” tells how a boy finds, when he least expects it, the 
adventure he has been looking for; “ Marooned” is the story of a boy who 
finds that a boy may be just as much scared as a girl ; “ Othello, Jr., ” de- 
crees how a little negro played Othello in a juvenile company of actors ; “A 
Millinery Opening” and “The Boys’ Ball” are Christmas stories ; and “Sal” 
is the pathetic story of a little girl who follows a hand-organ and coughs for 
pennies. 

BY GABRIELLE E. JACKSON. 

Three Graces. 

Illustrated in Colors by C. M. RelVea. i2mo. Cloth, $1.25 net ; 
postage, 12 cents additional. 

A story for girls of boarding-school life, full of incident and wholesome char- 
acterization, with delightfully cozy scenes of indoor enjoyment and an exciting 
description of a Hallowe’en escapade. The Three Graces are interesting girls 
who may count upon finding among youthful readers many who will follow 
their school experiences with a sense of making new friends. 


D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, NEW YORK. 


BY RALPH HENRY BARBOUR* 


HIS NEW VOLUME . 

Weatherby’s Inning. 

A Story of College Life and Baseball. Illustrated in 
colors by C. M. Relyea. $1.25 net; postage, 12 cents 
additional. 

In this latest book Mr. Barbour tells a story of college life and sport that 
will appeal to readers, old or young, who enjoy a well-written story contain- 
ing interesting characterization and a plot of sufficient mystery to carry the 
attention from page to page with increasing curiosity. 


MR. BARBOUR’S OTHER BOOKS FOR THE YOUNG. 

Behind the Line. 

A Story of School and Football. Illustrated by C. M. 
Relyea. i2mo. Cloth, $1.20 net ; postage, 12 cents ad- 
ditional. 

“ He writes with a picturesque vigor and a knowledge of his subject.” — 
St. Louis Post-Despatch. 

“ For many lads a story like ‘ Behind the Line’ is as good as an outing, or 
as beneficial as a real frolic would be on green fields or gravel campus.” — 
Philadelphia Item . 

Captain of the Crew. 

Illustrated by C. M. Relyea. $1.20 net ; postage, 12 
cents additional. 

Mr. Barbour has made himself a master of sport in fiction for young 
readers. His new book is one of those fresh, graphic, delightful stories of 
school life that appeal to all healthy boys and girls. He sketches skating 
and ice-boating and track athletics, as well as rowing. 

For the Honor of the School. 

A Story of School Life and Interscholastic Sport. 
Illustrated by C. M. Relyea. $1.50. 

“ It is a wholesome book, one tingling with health and activity, endeavor 
and laudable ambition to excel in more fields than one.” — New York Mail 
and Express . 

The Half-Back. 

Illustrated by B. West Clinedinst. $1.50. 

“ It is in every sense an out-and-out boys’ book, simple and manly in tone, 
hearty and healthy in its sports, and full of that enthusiasm, life, and fondness 
for games which characterizes the wide-awake, active schoolboy.” — Boston 
Herald. 


D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, NEW YORK. 








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